Chapter 20: Spinning out gold from the hollow of the heart¹


They moved slowly. Painfully slowly.

Constantly, Striker would be listening… for the hiss of tyres on the road above the onslaught of wet sound. For the sound of voices. Foreign London accents in this inaccessible Welsh waterland. The rain sounded like Cockney laughter.

She would jump at shadows in the downpour, seeing large hulks stepping out from curtains of water, seeing glints of metal in the shining drops, seeing the shrouded figure of Gilbert Lamprey rolling back the thunder.

On more than one occasion Morien would find her feet slipping under her and she would clutch on to Striker's strong arm for support. Already Striker had taken the bag from her. More and more, the American found herself half-carrying her friend along the path of the swelling stream. Morien seemed weightless in her arms. "You're too thin, my love. Let me take care of you," she whispered with her arms around her. But, above the rain, Morien didn't hear her.

They stopped, the barest hesitation to catch an instant of air. And finally the question was voiced. "How?" Morien breathed. "How can they be up here?"

Striker shook her head in reply. Raindrops sprayed from hair, that shone like obsidian. Her t-shirt clung to her like a second skin. Water was dripping off her chin.

"We were supposed to be safe up here."

"We are safe up here."

Morien stared. "Did you miss what happened back there?"

"This isn't London, Morien."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning this is your territory. You know this place. They don't. It's small. People will notice them. They'll be caught."

They had to be.

"So why didn't we know they were here?"

Striker couldn't answer that. "Come on," she said, holding out a hand.

It had cooled considerably. Morien noticed the shiver that Striker tried to suppress. That's all they needed, both of them sick. They needed to get warmth and shelter, and soon. This time she guided Striker, up the slope.

"Morien, what if they're…."

"I've remembered something…." She slipped again on the mud, and found sturdy hands at her waist. They clambered up the incline on all fours, and stood warily back on the grass verge.

For a moment, Striker wondered if they'd moved at all. Fields all around in the thick rain. The dark slate road winding like a river towards the hills. But this time… she could just make out, not that far ahead on the road, like a scarlet beacon, an old-fashioned, red telephone box, quiet on the corner of a byroad.

Now they were running again, for shelter, hope and a colourful oasis of civilisation. The door creaked open and they sighed to be out of the storm; Morien light-headed, clutching onto the Striker for support. Loose change slipped through wet and shaking fingers, as they fumbled to make the call.

Morien dialled a number.

It seemed an age before anyone answered, while the rain clawed at the glass and flurries of drops mimicked the sound of tyres on tarmac, making them jump. The phone continued to ring.

And then it stopped.

A voice.

"Daddy," Morien's speech was half sob. Striker could hear Sullivan's worried questions fired back. "Dad, could you call Idomeneo. They're up here," another sob. Another question. "We're on the Old North Road. At the phone box by the bridge."

Striker even heard Sullivan's next panicked question. "Cariad, are you hurt?"

"We're okay, dad… we're fine."

Striker mouthed "Doctor". Morien turned her eyes away. Striker snatched the receiver from her hand. "Hello, sir. It's Striker. Would it be possible for you to contact a doctor? Morien's had a seizure and someone ought to check her over. Thank you, Mr Llewelyn. We'll wait here, sir. Don't worry, sir, I promise I'll take care of her." She put the phone down and looked into Morien's accusatory gaze.

"You told him." Her voice was venomous.

"And what kind of friend would I be if I hadn't?"

Morien turned in the cramped phone box, pressing her head onto the glass, she looked out into the landscape. Her shoulders shook. Striker could tell that she was crying. She put a hand on Morien's back. "Look, I had to…."

Morien shrugged the hand off.

Striker crossed her arms across her saturated t-shirt and stared outside. The rain, at last, seemed to be easing, the sky lightening. She could see more clearly now. Up the road, Lleuadraeth looked more distinct, its roofs and lights glistening like some remote Celestial City. The byroad crossed the stream over a little bridge, barely more than a footbridge, and wound its way over fields. In the distance there was a building, as if tiptoeing around the extreme edge of town. Its shape looked familiar and Striker wondered if they'd passed it during their wanderings the day before. But they hadn't walked that far out.

There was no sign of any car, despite their willing the sight of the old Volvo. Striker looked out towards Lleuadraeth again, less than a mile away now. They could start walking again.

But, would they come out searching now that the rain was dying?

Striker was suddenly aware: the phone box had been a beacon for them; it could be a beacon for any other passer-by, local or stranger.

"Morien, I think we ought to go back down to the stream."

Morien turned her head slightly in response, saying nothing. Her eyes were red.

"Nigel and Bruce… they might come out again. I think we ought to keep off the road, outta sight."

Morien's whole body sagged, and for a moment, Striker wondered if she was going to faint. But she turned, and met Striker's eyes. "Okay."

They slid their way back down the slope, Morien refusing Striker's helping hand, and stood again by the stream, listening out for the sounds of a car above them. Striker eyed the bridge. The arch beneath was barely big enough to crouch under, let alone seek adequate shelter.

They stood awkwardly, uncomfortably, up against the rough stonework of the bridge. Morien regarded Striker from the corner of her eye. She made an abject picture, hair hanging in rivulets down her face, arms tight across her chest. Morien was incredibly angry with her. She was even more angry with herself.

"You're going to catch your death, you know."

Morien's soft Welsh burr was warming and welcome. Striker smiled. "Ironic, huh? Escape fires and bullets and I end up dying of pneumonia."

Morien held out her hand. "Come here." Striker moved and Morien wrapped her arms round her. "You're not going to die, stalker," she whispered into her neck. "I won't let you."

Striker returned the embrace and the feel of Morien against her made her groan. The slim body felt hot against her own, and the material of their clothes, rendered sheer by the downpour, made the contact feel like moist skin on skin. Morien's breasts pressed against her ribs, her breath was hot on her neck and it was a feeling that flowed through her like a river of warm honey, pooling at her groin.

She leant back against the wall, taking the Welsh woman with her, not wanting to lose a second of contact. In a jumble of legs, she felt her thigh slip between Morien's, a gentle insinuation, material lightly caressing material.

It was the adrenaline, she knew. The thrill of being chased. Desire was suddenly coursing through her body, nerve endings quivering at the contact. She could almost feel an answering tingle.

Morien looked up, and her eyes were as dark a green as Striker had seen; they seemed deep and endless. The dusky gaze flicked down to kiss Striker's lips, and Striker found herself entranced by Morien's own mouth. Her lips seemed suddenly swollen, pink; her tongue peeped out just to wet them. Striker's own tongue responded in kind and she moved forward, drawn….

And Morien shut her mouth. Her gaze was abruptly shuttered. She glanced up at Striker, a fearful, apologetic glance. A single word was in that look. Stop. She rested her forehead against Striker's shoulder and Striker could hear her breathing, hard.

The tall woman simply held her, loosely. "It's okay," she whispered, so only she could hear. I understand. It's only the adrenaline. You're tired. You're sick. It's raining. This is not the time or the place. You love your girlfriend.

And then they both tensed.

The sound of a car, just above them, pulling up by the bridge.

Morien's head was up. She looked at Striker and spoke, her voice like air, "It's not the Volvo. I'd recognise it…."

Rain still pattered around them.

Morien leant backwards in Striker's arms… ever so slightly. She lifted her eyes.

There was the barest squeak of a car door opening.

She dived back towards Striker, terror evident in her eyes. "Silver," she mouthed.

They pressed themselves against the bridge, sliding across the stonework to the arch across the stream. Striker squeezed herself under the bridge, crouching in the flow. Morien crammed herself in next to her, her sandalled feet paddling in the shallow water.

A footstep above them. Two.

A murmur of voices. They couldn't make out the words. They were moving.

Someone was coming down the bank, mud and grass squelching underfoot. The women pressed themselves against the arch.

There was a man standing at the foot of the bank, a big man: they could see smart shoes now coated in dirt, suit trousers….

A voice as loud and slow as thunder seemed to echo in their hiding place.

"Morien, lle dach chi?"²

They breathed in a rush. The stream started running again. They could hear the sweet dance of the rain.

"Idomeneo!" Morien called, her voice echoing against the walls. She pushed herself out of the tunnel and found herself on her knees before the large policeman.

Idomeneo bent down to help her up, as he did so, spotting Striker crawling through the stream to extricate herself from the archway. "Getting caught in the rain wasn't enough, then?" he said.

Striker gave him a look of thunder. That's all we fucking need, an amateur comedian. "They're up here. Bruce, Nigel and Gilbert Lamprey, whoever the hell he is. What the fuck are you going to do about it?"


* * * * *


It was a silent journey in the silver Ford as Idomeneo and his young colleague drove them home. Striker and Morien were slumped on the back seat, staring out of opposing windows, hands touching.

They could hear the wash of windscreen wipers and the gentle murmur of Welsh between Idomeneo and Constable John Smith. He had to be, Striker thought, Alas, Smith and fucking Jones.

Morien looked exhausted. Her eyes were closed and her skin pale against the dark car seat. Every ounce of life had been drained from her in the past hours. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of cerulean blue in the dusk of the car. She was too tired to speak now, but she blinked slowly at Striker as if conversing with one of her cats. And Striker understood: trust, understanding… love.

Morien closed her eyes.

The drive only lasted ten minutes.

Striker found herself carrying the shattered Welsh woman up the now familiar pathway and in through the open front door, past an ashen-faced Sullivan and a grey-haired gentleman who turned out to be the family doctor. Sullivan had already drawn a hot bath for his daughter, and once clean and warm, she was examined by Dr Probert in the privacy of her bedroom.

Striker showered, chuckling with an almost manic irony as the hot water rained down on her. Then, in the comfort of the sitting room - wrapped in a pair of pyjamas and a towelling robe that Sullivan had pressed into her hand, and sipping at soup - she was questioned by Idomeneo.

There seemed far too little to tell.

Idomeneo sighed. "I'll be back tomorrow, if you remember anything. And to talk to Morien."

"In the meantime?"

"Uniform will be out… but keep your head down."

That was it.

She was left alone. Soup finished, and two sleepy cats pawing at her seat on the sofa. It was a lovely room: cosy, with soft furnishings, and dark wood that didn't detract from the breadth or the light. Again there were photographs everywhere. Endless unknown family members, old and young.

(It made her think of her own family. Aunt Claire would have her shot if she ever set foot near their house again. Hell, Aunt Claire would probably pull the trigger herself.)

Pictures of Morien and a young man she recognised as Drake. Pictures of a toddler and a baby. A wedding picture of Drake and a striking blonde. An older wedding picture of a mop-haired Sullivan, uncomfortable in a neat grey suit, with a pretty auburn-haired woman on his arm. And there was a picture of a skinny girl with strawberry hair, green eyes and a quiet smile. God, she was so cute.

Striker found herself staring at the girl… wondering. Was that before or after she lost her mother? Was that before or after she kissed Annie Sayce?

The phone rang and Striker was jerked from her reverie. Sullivan was upstairs with Morien. It seemed unfair to interrupt them. She heaved herself up from the sofa, much to the cats' delight, and picked up the phone in the hallway.

"Hello… er… Llewelyn residence."

There was a long pause. "Who's that?" The voice seemed familiar.

Striker thought. Considering what had happened, should she be blithely giving out her name to anybody who asked? "It depends," she said, "on who this is."

Another pause. "This is Drake Llewelyn. Do I know you?" The Welsh accent was suddenly so precise, so pronounced, that Striker almost laughed.

"Oh, hi Drake. This is Striker West." And had to remind herself that, despite the fact that she felt like she knew this man, they'd only ever met once. Briefly. "I'm staying with Morien and your dad." Obviously. She felt the need to elucidate. "We met… a while ago now. I work… worked… at St Vincent's hospital."

She could almost hear his thoughts. American. St Vincent's…. "Were you the doctor in A&E who showed me where Morien was?"

"Well, I'm not a doctor… but, yes."

There was such a tangible rush of warmth from the other end of the phone that Striker could feel her face flush. "You don't know what you did for us that day. I can't thank you enough…."

"Hey, don't mention it. I'm glad to help. Your sister's… very special to me."

There was another pause. "Is Morien there, by any chance?"

Striker sighed. "I'm sorry, Drake. She was… feeling a little tired. She's already gone up to bed. I'd rather not disturb her."

"No, no, I quite understand," Drake replied. Always the concerned brother. Striker could imagine his forehead creasing like his father's. "And dad?"

"He's upstairs with her. I can get him if you want."

Drake seemed to be choosing his words. She wondered why. "Are… are you the friend that's been helping Morien these last few days?"

"Yeah, I am." Striker smiled. "She mentioned me?"

"Yes, she… mentioned you. Look, maybe you ought to know. I popped round to her flat today - I try and keep an eye on things when she's away…."

"Yes?"

"I went to pick up the new key from Mrs Kantorowicz, do you know her?"

Striker almost felt the echo of a poke in her shoulder. "Old eastern European lady. Yeah, I've met her."

"She's been attacked."

"Attacked? By whom?"

"I don't know. I bumped into someone from victim support at the house. I thought she might have been there for Morien, but then she told me about Mrs Kantorowicz."

"When did this happen?"

"Yesterday lunchtime, apparently. They broke a couple of her fingers, poor love. Terrified, she is. Won't say a word about who did it."

Striker covered her eyes with a hand. "Drake, would Mrs Kantorowicz have this address?"

"Probably. She keeps an eye on Morien, just in case she's… taken ill. She used to be a nurse, see? And Morien does the same for her, you know? I'm sure she's got dad's address." There was a pause. "Are you saying this is connected to what's happened to Morien?"

The stair creaked and Striker looked up to see Sullivan making his way down.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Drake, thank you for letting me know. Would you like to speak with your father? He's right here."

"She wants to see you," Sullivan said softly, then frowned at the look on Striker's face. He took the phone from her. "Drake? Be'sy'n bod?"³

Striker climbed the stairs two at a time. The bastards had hurt an old lady for information. Admittedly, a cantankerous bitch of an old lady. But if Mrs Kantorowicz hadn't given them the information, would they have gone after Morien's brother, Morien's little nephews…?

But, she wasn't going to tell Morien. Not now.

"Hey," she said, sticking her head round the bedroom door. She didn't need to fake a smile. One came naturally as she saw her friend curled up in bed. She still looked exhausted, but a little colour had returned to her face.

Morien smiled back, feeling awkward. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Your brother." Striker sat herself on the edge of the bed, smoothing the duvet beneath her.

"Oh, you've been Draked have you? Is everything all right? There's nothing wrong is there?" She noticed a little pleat between Striker's eyes.

"No, he was just phoning up to say 'hi', I think." She looked at Morien. Her face was still a little pale, a frail sprinkle of freckles standing out on her cheeks. There were still dark circles like clouds beneath her eyes. "How're you feeling?"

Morien looked awkward again. "I'm fine, really." She picked at an embroidered flower on the duvet.

"What did the doctor say?"

"Not much. I'd been through a stressful situation. I got dizzy. I was tired anyway. So a seizure wasn't really surprising. He's given me a mild sedative. But he was unwilling to change my medication. That's something I'll have to talk about with my GP in London."

"Is that good?"

"I suppose so. I've had problems with medication since the beginning. I was getting horrible side effects with my original drugs. I felt sick all the time, and I'm sure it stopped this from growing properly." She ran her fingers through her hair. "I'm okay with the pills I'm on now. They make me tired, but that's about it. I don't want to have to try something new." There was an edge of desperation in her voice.

"It won't come to that will it? This last week… you've been stressed out, and no one could blame you. Don't tell me this has been normal for you!"

Morien smiled, "No!" And made the mistake of looking directly into Striker's eyes. Her face suddenly creased and the tears came.

"Hey… come on…." Striker reached out, took her hand in hers. "Everything'll be okay. Idomeneo says the police are out looking for them. They'll catch them."

"It's not that…."

"Then what?"

Morien's expression reminded Striker of the little girl in the photograph downstairs. There was a pause, as if Morien was dredging for the words. "I hate having to take pills all the time. I feel like I rattle."

"Isn't it better that you rattle and be able to live a normal life?"

"I wish I didn't have to rattle at all." Another juddering sob. Striker handed her a tissue from the box by the bed. "I hate epilepsy, Striker. I hate it. Look at today, I could have got us killed…."

"No!" Striker interrupted so ardently that Morien looked at her in surprise. "If anything, your seizure could have saved our lives. If we'd have carried on running they would have seen us."

"Then I'm just sorry you had to see it." Her voice was so soft Striker had to strain to hear it.

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm so embarrassed." Morien hid her face in her hands.

Oh, my love…. Striker didn't know what to say. How could she tell her that it didn't matter? The only thing that mattered was that she was all right. But would that be dismissing her feelings? Morien needed to talk about this. So she asked a question instead. "Why?" she said, softly.

Morien sighed through her hands, but didn't speak for a moment. Then, muffled, she said. "I lose control. Of everything. I come out of it and… I don't know what's happened. Except, I'm covered in drool and sometimes…" Another sob. "Sometimes I've, you know… wet… myself."

"Hey, it's…."

"And I come out of it and everyone always looks so shocked and pitying. And I feel so helpless."

There was a silence. Striker could say nothing. She put her hand on Morien's leg, through the duvet, and rubbed gently.

Eventually, Morien took her hands away from her face, replacing them with a tissue.

"How often do you have seizures?"

Morien jumped at the question. "Not often…" Her voice was almost pleading. "Not often. I haven't for a while. The medication seemed to be doing its job, but this week has been…." She shrugged.

There was something in her voice that made Striker pause. This week. Not today, this week…. "Morien, at the Boom… was that why you left?"

Morien looked shamefaced. And slowly nodded.

Striker thought. "The lights… and the noise…. You didn't have a seizure, though, did you?"

Morien didn't answer her. She couldn't look Striker in the face.

"Morien?! Why didn't you tell me?!" Striker's voice was edged with anger now - a warning rumble of thunder. She grasped Morien's arms tightly… a tightness not quite bordering on punishment. "What happened?"

"It was okay before, when we were just talking. I really enjoyed it. The noise was fine, the lighting was okay. But the lights, when they started flashing… it's like my brain couldn't cope with it. I could feel a fit… coming. I was scared. I didn't want you to see that. I didn't want you to see me like that." She took a deep breath and the admission came out in a rush. "I had a seizure in the alley. In the dark." She shivered at the memory.

Striker felt the shiver through her fingertips and rubbed Morien's arms in an unconscious response, but her voice was still hard and hurt. "Did Thomas and… Paully… did they see… did they know?"

Morien shook her head. "They were busy with some people. I… I think Thomas thought I'd fainted. He was very kind."

"Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you trust me with this?"

Morien looked her in the eye for the first time. "I thought you... wouldn't want to be with me."

Striker looked astonished. "I would never…."

"Striker, you're the first person - and I mean the very first person - I've told about my epilepsy who hasn't reacted badly to it. All my family have been very supportive, but every one of them was shocked or overly worried or in some kind of denial when they first found out that I was an epileptic. At the very least they didn't know how to react. But, you… it just doesn't worry you. I thought it was because you were a doctor, but…." Striker turned her face away…. "Well, I was wrong there. But ever since I met you, you've treated me like a normal person instead of a freak or a burden or someone to be pitied or avoided. I mean, look at me, Striker, I'm not normal. I'm Frankenstein's monster. I can't live a normal life. Today just proved that."

"Morien…." Striker watched the tears roll down Morien's face, a face twisted in self disgust. She cupped a damp cheek, stroking the tears away with her thumb. "Morien, listen to me. Listen…." Morien finally looked up at her. "Let me tell you something. You are not 'an epileptic'. You shouldn't label yourself like that. You are a sweet, kind and good woman and a great friend… who just happens to have epilepsy. You are not a freak, your life is not over, you are not a burden to your family. I've seen how much your father loves you. How much he treasures you as a human being, and as his daughter, irrespective of neurological disorders, sexuality or… drug-dealing friends." She caught a smile. "Hey… did you know that Lord Byron had epilepsy?" Morien looked surprised. "Did you know Julius Caesar had epilepsy?"

A sniff. "Really?"

"Yeah, so if you want to go conquer Gaul anytime, there shouldn't be problem."

Morien giggled. It was a beautiful sound and made Striker grin inanely. But she let go of Morien's face. "Okay, so epilepsy sucks. But this is just something else that we're going to have to make part of our lives along with… I don't know… paying taxes and watching the Phillies lose…."

"Our lives?" Morien looked at her, blinking tears away.

"Yeah. You, your family, your friends… Sophie…" Morien looked away. Striker saw a glimpse of shame on her face. "What?"

"I…," she sighed, "…I haven't told her."

Striker's eyes widened to a glowing blue. "Your girlfriend doesn't know you've got epilepsy?"

Morien shook her head.

"Why haven't you told her?"

"Because I don't know how she'll react."

Striker's heart bled for Morien, for the misery she must have been carrying inside her for so long. She wanted to hug her, but she was scared she wouldn't be able to let go. Instead, she did the honourable thing, despite the lump in her throat. "Sweetheart, if she loves you then it won't matter to her. If she loves you she'll be there for you… whatever."

If she loves you like I love you.

Morien nodded, unconvincingly.

There was a silence. A tense, thick silence that was both intoxicating and terrifying. And then Morien spoke. "What about you?"

Striker blinked. Unsure of the answer. Unsure of the question. "What do you mean?"

Morien looked back into the sapphire. "You said 'our' lives."

It was Striker's turn to look away. "I did, didn't I?" Her fingers twisted around each other on her lap. "Well… I hope that… when all this crazy stuff is over… we can still be friends."

"Striker, of course!" Morien reached for her hand. "I can't… I couldn't imagine… us not being friends."

Then she spoilt the sentiment with an enormous yawn.

"Good." Striker smiled, a big grin that lit up the room. This wasn't over. There was more… she knew it. Morien had more to say, but she needed rest more than conversation. The sedative was finally kicking in. "Now shouldn't you be getting some sleep?"

Morien slid down into the bed as Striker pulled the covers over her. "Nag," she said.

Striker grinned even more as she wiped Morien's damp face with a sleeve. "You feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you." The lines round Morien's nose crinkled. Her eyes were feeling heavy. She gave in and closed them.

"You all nice and dry now?"

There should have been fodder for banter in that line, but Morien was too tired to react. So she simple agreed. "Nice and dry."

"Warm enough?"

Morien nodded.

"Want a bedtime story?"

"Mmm, but I don't think I'd last past 'Once upon a time'…."

And she didn't… not quite. Striker thought she had fallen asleep, she was about to get up, when there was a final, drowsy question. "Striker…."

"Mmm?"

"Are those dad's pyjamas?"

Striker looked down at the blue and maroon striped garments, under the loosely tied robe. "Yeah."

"They suit you."

Striker watched as Morien's face relaxed, her breathing evened, gazing down at her in the muted light of the bedside lamp. A thousand thoughts went through her mind. A thousand words that could be whispered into the still room.

For a moment, the nights of reading to the comatose woman were as close as yesterday. Sitting by the bed, it was as if she could still hearing the beeping of the EEG, before the noise drifted into birdsong in the outside evening.

She bent down, a hand paused on the lamp switch, but gave into temptation and touched her lips against the soft cheek. "I love you," she whispered, as quiet as night, and turned the light out.


* * * * *


Striker was starting to feel exhausted herself. In addition to the chase in the rain and the fear of the day, she guessed she still owed herself at least a good ten hours. But she was feeling wired. She needed something… just something to relax her.

She came down into the sitting room and found Sullivan bending over a wooden cabinet. He turned round and held a glass out to her. "You strike me as the kind of person who might appreciate a single malt."

That was what she needed. "Yes. Thank you," Striker said, and took the glass.

Sullivan closed the cabinet door. "You also strike me as the kind of person who'd accompany that single malt with a cigarette. So, shall we step out to the garden?"

They did, Striker with a slight sense of trepidation: Sullivan obviously wanted to talk.

The heavy rain had made the evening cool, although not cold. The sky was still speckled with cloud, but it was light and high and allowed the sinking sun to peek through.

Striker had barely made it into the garden during her stay. It wasn't particularly large, with just a few feet of lawn, shaped in an erratic oval. Flowerbeds dominated, exploding with colour and greenery; a paved path led through the borders to the unknown dark twilight of trees. There was a patio area nearest to the house, with garden furniture surrounded by pot plants. There was a harmony of sweet scents: wet grass, herbs, jasmine climbing up a nearby trellis; and the mysterious, dreamy smell of night-scented stock.

With a spray of raindrops, Sullivan whipped a cover off the bench like a conjuror, and they found comfortable, dry wood beneath them as they sat.

Striker produced her cigarettes and lit one. She saw Sullivan eyeing the packet.

"Um… may I?" he asked. Striker looked at him in astonishment, but nodded, and Sullivan helped himself to a cigarette. "For goodness sake, don't tell my kids," he said, and he leant forward to accept the flame.

The cigarette seemed alien in his fingers. His hands were shaking.

It took a sip or two of malt before either one of them spoke.

"It's extraordinary," Sullivan finally said. "I always thought the most traumatic thing that my family could go through would be losing Gwen… my wife." He took another sip of malt and let it warm his throat; soothe the burning of the smoke. "But I look at what Morien's been through this year…." He shook his head. "What do I do? How can I protect my daughter… my little girl… from this? I don't even know where to begin."

Striker watched her cigarette smoke dissipate into the sunset, unsure of how to answer, even if the question had an answer.

"I just wanted to give them a quiet life, you know? I grew up in the city, but my wife was always a country girl. That's why we settled in Lleuadraeth. It's a small town. It's quiet. It has a good school. It has a caring community. And now look at us…. Drug dealers, guns…. My daughter almost died today. And I can't even say that that's never happened before… or it'll never happen again." He took a big gulp of malt and his shaking hand spilt ash from his cigarette.

Then he continued. "Morien… she can be so headstrong, so determined, you know?" Striker smiled. "But, now she seems so fragile. She never needed protecting, although I've always tried to watch out for her. So has Drake, bless him, even when he was young. You know, Morien was beaten up at school…."

"What?"

"After she came out, you know? She was confronted by a gang of boys. She ended up with a broken rib, a split lip, a black eye, it could have been worse too… much worse. But it was Drake who was more upset, because he felt as if he should have done something. He was thirteen, and a small thirteen at that. But Morien, she walked right back into school, chin up, black eye glowing, confronted the boys who'd done it, showed them she had nothing to be ashamed of, and the whole lot of them ended up getting expelled. They were bloody lucky not to get arrested."

Striker smiled again, feeling warm with pride and whisky.

"When that happened, I thought that maybe that was going to be the toughest thing she had to go through in her life. Confronting prejudice…. She's always been able to look after herself, and she's always kept an eye on us too. But I've seen such a change in her this year. She's been so low, her self-esteem… She's been so troubled." He shook his head, and took a puff of the cigarette, which was burning down without his help. "She hides it, of course. Seems like she's the old, laughing, joking, sweet Mo. But, it's like she's lost herself…." He paused, and looked sideways at Striker. "That's what I thought, anyway."

Striker looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"You've been good to her. You've been good for her."

"She's been good for me."

Sullivan smiled. "I've watched my daughter over the last few months. She's been quiet, pale, far too thin. It's like she's struggling to come to terms with what's happened to her. When the two of you arrived on Saturday, I knew she was in some kind of trouble, and I expected to see her even more pale, even more quiet. And she was tired and concerned… but there was a sparkle in her eyes that I haven't seen for… I haven't seen." He didn't continue, just glanced at Striker again. And then, "Today scared me though, Striker. Today scared me badly. But I'm so grateful you were there."

"It scared me too."

"Then you were extremely brave."

Striker shook her head. "I'm not brave. Morien's the bravest person I know."

Sullivan reached down beside him and revealed the bottle of malt. He topped up Striker's glass and then his own. Behind his glasses, his eyes glittered briefly in the light from the house. "Drinking on a school night. It's not often I do this."

"I think tonight you've got an excuse."

"I think tonight I have." He took a sip, and sucked at the remaining stub of his cigarette. His hands were still shaking. "My God, the thought of losing her…."

"I won't let that happen." The words were quiet, resolute and carved in stone in the cool night.

Sullivan looked at Striker. Strange that those steadfast words should come from someone who suddenly seemed so shy. "What is my daughter to you?" he asked.

Although Striker still didn't look at him, Sullivan couldn't help but notice an eyebrow raise. She couldn't keep the bashful laughter out of her voice. "You sound like you're asking me my intentions."

There was a pause. "Maybe I am."

Now Striker did look at him, blue eyes wide with surprise.

"I might not know you, Striker, but I know love when I see it."

The night was suddenly warmer, whether from the whisky, the cigarette, the towelling robe or the fact that she'd just been caught out. And there was Sullivan, ball in catcher's glove. Her cheeks were blazing, she knew it, and she also knew she couldn't lie.

"Sir… Mr Llewelyn…," she cleared her throat, "…Sullivan…." And then the words came out in a rush, spinning out into the night. "I love your daughter more than anything in the world. And I will protect and treasure her while I still have breath in my body to do it. If she'll let me." She emptied almost the entire glass and almost lost her continued words in its smooth fire. "And if I have the guts to tell her."

She glanced up at Sullivan. He was regarding her. With amusement? With satisfaction? With gratitude? He grinned and held out his tumbler. "Here's to guts," he said.


* * * * *


Striker tiptoed up the creaky stairs, determined not to wake Morien.

Sullivan and she had watched the dusk turn to night, moths tapping at the windows, an owl calling into the lonely dark. And beneath it the gentle wash of the sea as if it was another heartbeat or a breath.

They hadn't talked much more.

But Striker's admission whirled round her mind. The words were out there now, teasing the moths and dancing with moonbeams.

Striker and Morien, sitting in a tree….

So, Sullivan knew, Danny knew, how long before the whole world knew and…. Oh, Dan, what am I going to do? I think I'm about to fuck up again, bro. Please don't let me fuck this….

"Striker." She was passing Morien's bedroom, the door ajar, and the words were so quiet that she barely heard them. She stopped, listening intently.

Nothing. Just the faintest sound of even breaths.

That was the whisky talking.

She closed the bathroom door behind her and concentrating on brushing away the malt and smoke from her teeth. That finished, she peed, flushed, washed and headed out onto the landing again towards her own room.

"Striker." That was louder. She crept to Morien's bedroom door and peeked round. It was quiet and dark in the bedroom. She could see the rounded shape of her friend curled up in the bed. No sound. She turned…. "Striker... don't go."

"You're supposed to be asleep."

"I am asleep… at least… I'm so tired… I can't think straight."

"Do you need anything, honey?"

"Yes." It was a muffled affirmation, spoken into sleep and pillows.

Striker went closer, her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark. "What?"

Morien turned. Her eyes were open. Striker could almost see the green in the shadows. "You… cariad, I need you."

The breath caught in Striker's throat. "What?"

It sounded as if it was an effort for Morien to talk. "Please… Striker… stay with me. I don't want to be… alone."

The words were out, working their magic. Striker didn't even need to think. She closed the door behind her, slipped off the robe and stepped out of the pyjama bottoms. The shirt barely made it past the dark curls between her thighs, but she didn't care any more.

She lifted the duvet and glided along the cool sheet until her body hit Morien's with the softest of collisions. A sweet confusion of limbs as Morien turned, burrowing into Striker's arms, and then the gentle, bittersweet resting of bare skin - a flicker of breath, eyes closed in sleep and wonder.

And need.

There was a creak on the stair. A step on the landing. The squeak of a door. Sullivan going to bed. Water gurgled through pipes; a brief symphony. A light clicked off. Another door closing.

Then stillness dripped in the room.

Morien stirred briefly against her. Striker could just make out her face in the dim light. She looked more like a child than ever.

I will protect and treasure you while I still have breath in my body to do it. Whatever happens between us, you are my love, Morien, you are my life.

Striker lay motionless, letting the cool night move across her heated body. The window was open. The perfume of night-scented stock stole into the room on the sound of the wavering sea. Morien's skin smelt softly of flowers and her slow and even breathing rippled against Striker, igniting fire in her veins.

She was in love. She was alive with it. She was buzzing with it. She wanted to dance with her love on the swell of fragrance, she wanted to shout her love over the harmony of the waves. The feeling took her breath and her heart.

Morien slept.



Chapter 21: Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region⁴


She became conscious of the warmth at first. Not the sticky, oppressive warmth of high summer, but the silky and caring warmth of adoration. It seeped into her and made her hum with bliss.

Next, she became aware of scent. It was heady, smoky, part arousal, part sandalwood, part rose…. An intense mixture, yet so subtle she found herself burying herself in the cotton-smooth skin beneath her cheek to catch it.

There was a soft-hard length against her. She felt tangled in it, as if it were ivy. But this ivy supported, and held, but didn't ensnare or imprison.

There was a murmur of cloth against cloth, but her hand was resting on flesh: a velvety dale, secret under the canopy of cotton.

A bare back.

She edged her fingers along a lush path and found a gentle slope upwards, both yielding and firm. And a realisation hit her with the tenderness of a late spring breeze. Striker didn't have any underwear on. And if she didn't have any underwear on, that meant that she was mere inches from somewhere hidden and warm and….

She wasn't sure what was more powerful: the rush of desire, or the humbling sense of gratitude at her friend's trust. And laced with that, the sudden fear of the consequences.

That admitted, she wasn't going to move her hand just yet.

Morien remembered that moment, just a few days ago - a lifetime ago - sitting in Striker's kitchen and the surge of jealousy she had felt as Danny caressed his friend's backside. She smiled - the cat who's got the cream.

Striker was in her bed, half-naked, embracing her with the intimacy and confidence of a long-term partner. And Morien was glorifying in the sensation.

Striker shifted slightly, causing Morien's hand to glide against a dimpled buttock. In the depths of sleep there must have been an awareness, because a gentle noise, somewhere between a growl and a moan, radiated from her. And the ivy of limbs moved so that Morien felt an entreating knee pressing for entrance between her thighs. She opened her legs, cradling Striker's own strong, muscular length.

How had they got here? When had they become everything to each other but lovers?

The moment she had looked into those cyanic eyes and lost herself.

But they weren't going to become lovers.

They weren't.

Despite their current position and the rapid dampening between Morien's legs.

Friends can be physical, Morien told herself. Friends can share a bed. Friends can kiss. Friends can cuddle. Friends can make love....

She thought of Danny again... and wished she hadn't with the rush of jealousy that threatened to overwhelm her.

Morien found herself tightening her hold around Striker's body.

And then she opened her eyes.

BUWCH SANCTAIDD!⁵

She was still resting on Striker's shoulder, her lips all but kissing a bare neck, uncovered by the baggy pyjama top. She couldn't see Striker's face above her, but if she looked down….

If she looked down…

The top button of the shirt had worked loose during the night, and as Morien looked down she could see the billows of two large, firm breasts, erect nipples flushed rose-pink….

And she melted.

There was a telling warm stickiness on her thighs. It was a sensation she had actively repressed for months. But now her body rebelled: it gave in to the heat and dissolved. She was liquid. Her mouth watered. She wanted to slide down and make a home in the deep canyon between those breasts. She wanted to nuzzle, she wanted to lick, she wanted to suck….

Suddenly, Striker jolted awake.

Morien swallowed. "You okay?"

Striker's breathing was fast. "Yes, I'm fine. Had a weird dream, that's all."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Morien asked. If only to help me focus on something other than your body. Or my body.

"No."

Her dream had been wet and hot. It had been full of guns and fear and thunderstorms, and seizing bodies caked with mud. It had ended with Paully.

Enough said.

And then she became aware of the proximity of Morien's words. She glanced down at wide awake green oceans of eyes, full of light in the curtained room.

She became aware of the slight weight of a hand on her bare backside.

And the position of her leg…. So near and yet so far.

She smiled at her almost lover, her own eyes part teasing part serious. "Do you want me to move?"

In which direction?

"No."

Neither of them wanted to move on… or move back. So they remained where they were, wrapped round each other. Losing themselves.

This, they reasoned: if they didn't move, then maybe they wouldn't have to confront what was waiting for them in the big, bad world. If they didn't move, maybe the whole world would disappear, leaving only the two of them. Just the two of them… that's all they needed.

And if they didn't talk about it… if they didn't think about it… they wouldn't have to acknowledge what this intimacy might mean. The ostrich response, Morien thought, burying your head in the softest skin you can find. And she did.

"How are you feeling?" Striker finally murmured into the down on Morien's scalp.

"'Kay." The response felt like a caress against Striker's neck.

"Still tired?"

"Yes… but good tired."

"We don't have to do anything today."

Morien moved her head slightly, looking up to ask the question. "Idomeneo's coming, isn't he?"

Striker looked down at her. Her eyes twinkled like stars in the morning. "Will he be shocked to find us still in pyjamas?"

Morien smiled as she returned her head to its favourite spot. "I should think that the world will keep turning and the North Wales police will still be able to function."

She felt Striker chuckle against her hair. "I love… I love your accent." She half-wondered what it would be like to hear Morien say her name….

"I love your accent too, stalker. I love your voice. Ever since you read to me… you know?" It felt good to say the 'l' word. I love you, my friend. I love the feel of your body against mine. I love the way you smell. I love how your eyes change colour with your mood. I love the way you look like a million dollars in tatty shorts and old trainers.

I love you, R. S. B.

There was no response. Just a warm smile against her scalp.

The house was silent. Sullivan was long gone. They could hear birdsong outside. The sound of seagulls beyond. And the distant, but constant wash of the sea. They could hear their hearts beating.

"Morien…."

"Mmm…?"

"This is nice."

Maybe friends could be physical.


* * * * *


Eventually, they had to get up. The bathroom, the sounds of disagreeing cats, the rumble of stomachs, called them to life.

And they missed the connection immediately.

All they had done was held each other, dozing, occasionally whispering soft, non-committal words. Love wasn't mentioned again.

Time was galloping full-speed towards midday. Morien took advantage of Striker's time in the bathroom to make a phone call. There were questions she still had, that hadn't had a chance to be asked. So she dialled the number. It had barely had time to ring before it was answered; a polite, cultured speaker: "Regeneration Unit."

"Hi, Asha, it's Morien. How's it going?"

"Okay. Danny's out of Intensive Care."

"Already?"

"Already. They're really pleased with him. He's being moved into a different ward this morning."

Morien breathed a sigh of relief. "Striker will be thrilled. Things are going well, then." There was a slight catch at the other end of the line, as if Asha had hitched breathing. "What?"

"Morien, I… I've moved in with my auntie."

"Asha… why?"

"My parents have thrown me out."

Morien's mind raced. "Because of Danny?"

She could hear Asha fighting off tears, but her voice was quiet. She could imagine her, her head down, whispering into the phone, hand to her forehead, avoiding the questioning glances of her gossiping workmates. "Because of Danny. Because I lied to them. Because he's led me astray. Because he's not Hindu. Because he's black…."

"But after everything that's happened…."

"I've brought shame to the family, Morien. I'm just lucky to have a more open-minded auntie."

"Asha…."

There was a moment of silence between them: filled with sorrow and understanding and solidarity.

And then Asha spoke again. "It's weird without you here, Morien. No one knows what's going on."

"So what has been going on?"

"Keith's been suspended. Councillor Mrs Keith's been suspended. All work on the Woodhall Estate project's been stopped because there's an investigation into that. The police have come in and cleared Keith's desk…."

"That must have taken them some time…."

"You're telling me. They were here for days. Donna and Sally were having a lovely time chatting up a couple of detectives. Rumour has it that one policeman even got lost in Keith's Pending Tray. They had to go in after him with a safety line."

That broke the tension.

"Do they honestly think Keith was involved?" Morien was finding it hard to imagine mild-mannered, absent-minded Keith becoming embroiled with violent drug dealers. He had young children, for heaven's sake. His dog was called Buttons. Criminals didn't have dogs called Buttons, did they? But then you didn't expect drug dealers to be called Nigel and Bruce.

Asha's voice was low. "Councillor Mrs Keith… Caroline… rumour has it that, at the very least, she knew exactly what was going on and turned a blind eye. The big question is: did she direct Keith?"

Morien was silent. All that time…. Had Keith known? Worse, had he, directly or indirectly, advised the brothers? Keith had watched as she'd walked into hell and done nothing. No word. No warning. All that time….

"Asha," she finally said, "is anything being said about me?"

"All sorts," she could hear Asha's exasperated groan. "You're gossip topic of the month. We've had everything from drug dealers' kidnap victim to gun-toting gangster's moll." Morien didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Officially, you're still off sick."

"I guess that's as good a lie as any," Morien replied. "Has anyone asked you?"

"You know how it is, Morien. No one notices me. A few - those that remember I'm here and remember that we're friends - they've asked. I just tell them you're one of the good guys."

"Thanks, Asha."

"Nothing to thank me for. It's the truth, isn't it? Besides, I'm just keeping my head down and getting on with my work. The only thing that matters to me now is getting Danny well and home."

"Sounds like that'll happen soon."

"I hope so." Asha's tone lightened. "How's it going with Striker?" Morien could picture the teasing upturn of her friend's mouth.

"We're fine."

"Still friends?"

She knew her friend's eyes were twinkling.


* * * * *


They were making brunch when the doorbell rang. Morien went to answer it and Striker could hear the rumbling tones from the kitchen. "Check before you open the door, Morien. Did you know it was me?"

Striker came out of the kitchen with a tray of toast and tea, handing Idomeneo a mug. "Still haven't caught up with the bastards then?"

Idomeneo looked her up and down, but didn't reply. He made his own way to the sitting room. Apparently, North Wales Police could still function if Striker West stayed in her pyjamas. At least she'd put the trousers back on.

Idomeneo settled himself in an armchair. The women sat on the sofa. They watched as the policeman took a sip of tea, and made himself comfortable. It was like watching a cliff-face settling in for late elevenses. Finally, he spoke. "I had a little chat with a chap at the Met this morning."

Striker had the feeling that the chat might have taken most of the morning. Idomeneo stared into his tea, as if trying to gauge the future from it. Should they tell him it was made from a teabag?

"Yes?" Morien prompted.

Idomeneo finally looked up, glanced from one to the other. "Their names are Nigel and Bruce Toussaint."

"Toussaint? Not Lamprey?"

"Sons of Charles Toussaint."

Striker shook her head. Was that name supposed to mean anything?

"Charlie Toussaint was found guilty of armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon and manslaughter. He died in prison last year." He paused. "Natural causes."

"So they got pedigree?" Striker asked

"You could say that. Their mother is Gilbert Lamprey's sister."

Morien became aware of the tap-tap-tap of Striker's impatience as she drummed her fingers on the sofa cushion. She was going to start swearing in a minute. So Morien asked the question. "Idomeneo, who is Gilbert Lamprey?"

Idomeneo took another swig of tea and swilled it round his mouth. "Not sure."

Morien felt rather than heard Striker's silent scream.

"But it seems his name's been bouncing around the Met for years. Drugs, guns, interesting business practices…." He pronounced all four syllables in 'interesting', as if he were hopping on verbal stepping stones. "But they've never been able to pin anything on him. Seems Mr Lamprey's a clever man. Many of his associates have been caught, including Charlie Toussaint, but never him. Never enough evidence, see. Somehow he instils great loyalty in those about him… and never gets his own hands dirty."

"But what about the printout Morien had? Surely that proved he's involved at Tumblety Street?"

Idomeneo grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Exactly. Somebody slipped up. And our Morien caught it before they could clear up the mess."

Morien became aware that both Idomeneo and Striker were looking at her, smiling. Stereo pride. She flushed with it. Discreetly, she reached for her would-be lover's hand only to have Idomeneo catch her eye. The tiniest rise of a slate-grey eyebrow, and she flushed even more.

"Okay, so we now know to address these bastards as 'Mr Toussaint' if we meet them in the street, but do you know where they are?"

"No."

Striker almost got up, but was forced to keep sitting by Morien's touch. "What the fuck do you mean 'no'?! This isn't London, Inspector Jones. There's only a limited number of places they could be. This is not a big town…."

"They're not in Lleuadraeth." Idomeneo's face was passive, as if Striker's outburst hadn't even scratched the surface. He gulped down another mouthful of tea. "If they were, we would know about it." Striker opened her mouth to speak, but he carried on. "They have been seen. We have leads. We're working on them."

"So what do we do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"You stay here."

"So we're stuck in here like caged fucking animals, and they're out there waiting to blow our heads off?"

"Not quite. There are police out looking for them, and the moment they set a foot in Lleuadraeth they'll be caught."

"But you're saying we can't move 'til they're caught."

"I'm saying don't go out unnecessarily, and don't go out without an officer knowing where you'll be. Don't get any ideas. Don't go off on any wild goose chases, and don't go antagonising the locals." Idomeneo looked her straight in the eye.

So he'd heard about the harbour square.

"Yeah, well some locals need a bit of antagonising." Striker sounded like a sulky teenager.

Idomeneo smiled. "There's a few who need a good kick up the arse. But it's a metaphorical kick, Ms West, and I get to do it, all right?"

Striker couldn't help but smile back. "You're no fun."

Idomeneo finished his tea.


* * * * *


So, they stayed in all day.

They watched a little television - news bulletins still wallowed in the aftermath of the Tumblety Street find. They were falling like dominoes: Caroline Tivison's name was mentioned, but not Keith, Morien was relieved to hear. And a number of other councillors had been questioned.

An interviewee appeared on screen.

"Oh, my God!" said Morien. "What the hell is he supposed to know?"

Wayne Marlow, he was captioned, Security, East Metropolitan Borough Council.

"Well, obviously," he was saying, "there was a suspicion of something going on, unannounced visits, irregular working hours, that kind of thing, and we in the security department had raised our concerns, but nothing could ever be proved."

"Oh, please! That man wouldn't know trouble if she came up to him with 'Bad Girl' tattooed on her tits."

Striker glanced over at Morien, lifting an eyebrow. "Now that's an idea…."

"Don't you dare!" Morien shot back, causing the other eyebrow to lift.

But then Striker was diverted. Police had taken the unusual step of naming two men in connection with the crimes. Bruce and Nigel Toussaint. The search for them had transferred to North Wales. They were considered armed and dangerous.

"So, that's what he looked like before you redesigned his nose," Morien murmured.

And then they named Lil' Paully. There he was, a grin as wide as the TV screen, his gold tooth sparkling as brightly as his eyes.

"He was only trying to protect the people he loved," Striker said quietly. "And those bastards had to…." She turned the television off.

They played Scrabble, finding themselves intriguingly matched until, in what Morien called a "dubious" move, Striker added 'left' to 'field' and the board ended up on the floor.

"It is a perfectly acceptable word."

"It doesn't appear in the dictionary."

"That dictionary knows fuck."

"Yes, it does. But it doesn't know leftfield."

Eventually they dressed, and watched the world go by from the perspective of the back garden, playing with the cats.

It led to a question. "I thought you said you had three cats?"

"Do," Morien replied, tickling Heriell's tummy. "There's Snowflower as well."

"Snowflower?"

"Her name makes sense when you see her. She's almost wild. We barely see her during the summer."

"And in the winter?"

"She behaves like visiting royalty. Woe betide any of us if we put a toe wrong."

Sullivan found them lying on their backs on the lawn - Easey using Striker's chest as a pillow, Heriell curled up against Morien's side - watching clouds, high up and indistinct in the blue.

"Good day, daddy?" Morien asked of her upside-down father.

"Well, a little busier than yours," he replied, kneeling down to give his daughter a kiss on the forehead.

"Yeah, well we got an excuse," Striker replied, lighting a cigarette, trying to avoid burning Easey's nose.

"There's police everywhere," Sullivan informed. "There's been police cars parading round town all day."

"Holding a cops' convention, huh?"

"Apparently so."

"Hey, dad." Morien rolled onto her stomach and looked up at him. "Do you think it would be okay for us to go for a walk later?"

"With all those policemen around? I'd be surprised if you couldn't walk to Cardiff in safety."

"Hey, Striker, do you want to go for a walk after supper?"

Striker blew smoke away from Easey, as the little cat stretched on her chest. "We get to eat first?"


* * * * *


Morien prepared chicken pasta and salad. With extra tomatoes.

Striker worshipped her from afar.

Sullivan talked about teaching poetry to fifteen-year-olds as they sat round the kitchen table. "I don't know," he bewailed. "They'll quite happily spend hours discussing pop lyrics of the boy-meets-girl-have-sex kind, but provide them with something half-way meaningful by Dylan Thomas or Ted Hughes or Sylvia Plath and it's all you can do to keep them awake."

"Oh come on, dad. Everyone always loved your classes when I was there, that can't have changed. And I always stayed awake," Morien said.

"True," said Sullivan, his mouth half-turned in a smile, "but you're my daughter and therefore didn't have a choice."

"Besides, you weren't interested in the boy-meets-girl-have-sex stuff," Striker added. Her eyes twinkled as Morien coloured.

Damn she looks cute when she blushes.

"Anyway, you have more intelligence and meaning in your little toe than most kids have in their entire bodies… ever." She took another mouthful of food, and looked up to find Morien staring at her. "What?"

"That's a lovely thing to say."

Striker swallowed, and lost herself in green. There were words tripping in her head. And in her heart. She wanted to say them. The admission to Sullivan the night before…. Was now the right time? Did she dare?

Eventually, she stumbled on a sentence. "You're a great cook, too."

The green glowed. "This from the queen of bacon sandwiches."

What was being said here?

Sullivan glanced from one to the other. He stood up, plate in hand. "I think I might take this into the dining room," he said. "Make a start on some lesson plans."

No one heard him.


* * * * *


They went out not long after, leaving the plates to soak, and Sullivan conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra with his pen.

There was a police car at the end of the road. Inside, Constable Smith was fast asleep.

Striker knocked on the window. "We're feeling mighty safe here."

Smith jumped and wound down the window. "Good," he said, blinking in the evening light. "Where are you two going?"

"We're claiming our right to freedom as citizens of the human race and going for a walk. Is that okay with the North Wales police?"

Smith glowered at her. "You're not free, you're on bail. Get in." He jerked his head in the direction of the back seat.

"What the fuck do you mean 'get in'?"

"I mean, tell me where you'd like to walk and I'll take you there."

"Well that kinda fucking negates the point of walking, doesn't it?"

"Striker, just get in the car," Morien said, opening the door. "John, how about Clogwyn Bae?"

"Just as long as I don't have to climb it," Smith retorted, and started the engine.

"So, you guys been doing much else other than sitting in your cars all day?" Striker asked as they drew out into the High Street. "Or does everyone want in on the gangsters?"

"Nothin' much else going on," the young constable answered. "Couple of muggings in Penygroes. Kids, by the sound of it. Someone stole a Post Office van in Llithfaen. Nothing much on it, postman had all but finished his deliveries. Car got stolen from the supermarket car park on Heol Coed…."

"So we're the most interesting thing out there, huh?"

"Well, the Toussaints are," Smith replied. He pulled the car into a lay-by. "I'll wait here for you. You know where I am if you need me."

Striker got out of the car. "Yeah, sure, sorry we interrupted your sleep with some work." She turned round.

And looked up.

"It's a fucking mountain!"

"No it isn't, it's barely a hill. Come on," Morien encouraged. "Besides, I want to show you something." Striker grinned at her. "You're incorrigible."

They started up the path that wound its way between grass and rocks. Seabirds wheeled above them, crying into the deep blue.

After a while, Striker spoke. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Morien stopped to let her long-legged companion catch up. "Another one?" she said, smiling.

Striker seemed to pause to find the words. "You know you said that before you came out you 'experimented'? What did you mean?"

Morien giggled. "Is that all? I meant that when I was fifteen, I went out for a while with Hugh Maddocks. We were quite the item. And he was sweet and respectful and we held hands and cuddled, and he was a very nice kisser as well." She smiled at Striker's surprise. "But that was it. Never wanted to do anything more. I'm a virgin as far as that is concerned. Isn't that what you want to know?"

Striker didn't answer. She looked down at her boots.

They started walking again.

"I still hear from Hughie from time to time. He lives in Manchester now. With Davey Miles."

Striker looked round in surprise. "Davey Miles? The kid who proposed to you?"

"I know how to pick them, don't I?"

"Sounds like you have the perfect taste in men… for you. Wish I had been so lucky."

"But you have Danny."

Striker shook her head. "I never had Danny, and he never had me. I guess that's why it worked."

They fell into a breathless silence, continuing their march uphill. Striker glanced back. The police car was still parked in the lay-by. She could imagine Constable Smith, his seat back, his eyes closed, the metal framework vibrating with his snoring. A question came to her unannounced. "Why do you like it so much round here when the people can be so…."

"Rude?" Morien smiled, wondering if Striker was the pot or the kettle. "Let me tell you something. When my mam was ill, when she knew she was dying, she wanted to be at home, not in some hospital. So, my dad took unpaid leave for five months to be with her… and us. There was no money coming in. The little they had saved up just went on her care. They got a little in benefits, and our grandparents gave us all they could, but there was a mortgage to pay, bills to pay… there would be days when dad could barely afford to feed us."

She paused for a moment as they continued to make their way up the steep slope. She reached out a hand, pulling Striker up over a rocky incline. As fleet as a fairy in a flower meadow, Striker thought as she reluctantly let Morien's hand slip from her grasp.

Fairies? If you believe in fairies clap your hands.

Right on Tinkerbell, gimme five.

"Anyway, there'd be days like that when there'd be a knock on the door and it would be Mrs Probert from up the road. She'd made far too much casserole and would we like some? Then there'd be Mrs Price from round the corner who'd turn up with a loaf of freshly-baked bread. Mrs Jenkins from next door would bake us cakes. Mr Maguire would give us vegetables from his allotment. We never asked for it… they just came. And more… there was always someone to see us to school, pick us up, take Drake to his music lessons, take me to my art class - even pay for them if need be… or to stay with mam when dad took us out. Old Mrs Morgan even took us to the cinema in Pwllheli a couple of times, paid the bus fare and everything - though I think she just wanted an excuse to go and see some Disney films."

They were almost at the top of the hill. Morien looked back at Striker, just a few steps behind her. "So, they may be damn rude, they may be a little too jingoistic at times and like any section of society you have your prejudiced, arsehole minority, but the majority are good-hearted, caring people. And we look out for each other. Then, of course, there's this…."

And Striker reached the top of the hill. "Oh my God!"

Before her stretched the world.

On one side, Lleuadraeth stretched at her feet like a cat in the sun - its head in the cool shadow of the hills, its tail gently brushing the white sands of the beach. All around, the setting sun danced across the land, teasing cloud shadows across green uplands, bathing grazing flocks in the glow of evening. On the other - and the other left her stunned - was the sea. They were at the top of a cliff, short, wind-stunted grass prickled their ankles. The beach lay below them, the tide tickling the shore with a feather-white touch, and beyond that the deep, blue-green of the Irish Sea. The sun turned each wave crest into burning gold, so from the cliff-top it looked as if the sky was trying to net the mysteries in the ocean's depths. And the sky itself melted from the velvet blue of oncoming night into the soft peach of day's end, as the sun lowered itself into the water.

They stood without a sound, listening to the wind telling stories, listening to the little town purr beneath them, the waves caressing the long curve of beach, and the sky sing with seagulls above. And throughout everything, they heard the timeless rush of tide, both inside and out, as if their blood was ocean.

But more and more, Striker found her attention drawn not to the sea or the sky or the land, but the face of the woman in front of her. Morien stood near the edge of the cliff, her skin glowing with the colours of evening, the breeze blowing the short lengths of auburn hair back from her face, against the blue of her headscarf. She stood as if she was a queen surveying her realm, familiar and comfortable with everything she regarded. This was her land, her ocean, her life - and she was alive with it.

"I wanted to show you this," she said, her voice lilting above the wind and the waves. She turned slightly, gifting Striker with the perfect profile.

"You're so beautiful." Striker said it so quietly she thought only the wind would hear, but slowly Morien turned her face towards her.

"What did you say?" Her voice was as quiet as Striker's had been, but suddenly it was if the sounds of words didn't matter any more… only their meaning. She caught Striker's gaze, becoming lost in their intensity. The blue was shining so brightly it was like silver… or the Welsh gold of the waves.

There was magic here. All her life Striker had wanted to believe in it: had read about it, dreamed about it, but had always inhabited a world that was made up of harsh, emotional, sometimes violent reality. But now, here at the top of this hillside, with the incantations of the wind and the waves in her ears, she was suddenly able of truly believing.

And she stepped into the unknown region.

"You're beautiful… so beautiful," she repeated, incapable now of saying anything but what was in her heart.

The words stole Morien's breath away.

Striker moved closer. It was as if she no longer had a choice of what she could say, what she shouldn't. She raised her hand, almost despite herself, and rested it on Morien's cheek. "Do you know what you are to me?"

Morien looked puzzled, almost scared. She looked up into Striker's eyes, eyes that reflected the sky and the sea. "You think I'm beautiful?"

"I think you're more beautiful than anything."

"Don't be silly…." She looked away.

"Hey, I mean it." She brushed her thumb against soft skin, revelling in the way it made her own skin tingle; in the art of the sunset, like stained glass on Morien's face; in the play of the wind. "All the things that have happened to you. All the torment we've been through over the last few days. Sweetheart, I wish… I wish I could take it all away."

"But you do," Morien broke in. It seemed a time for confessions. Forgive me, mother, for I am about to sin. "Striker… when I'm with you, I forget everything. The pain, the fear of it all." Now she reached up to brush a lock of hair from Striker's face. She ran her fingers through Striker's long, loose hair, loving the way the light shimmered blues and coppers across the dark mane. "I forget myself… I forget my name… I forget to breathe…."

"Don't do that," Striker whispered, and kissed her.

They lingered, warm and soft.

It was a simple question asked by caress, which was answered with another question. Neither of them tried to deepen the kiss, needing simply the feel of satin beneath their mouths, and the lazy, silken flow of blood through their veins. It was enough for Striker to rest her hand on Morien's cheek and for Morien to keep her fingers tangled in Striker's hair. It was enough to acknowledge that this was something more than simple friendship. It was enough… for this moment. So they lingered.

Slowly, slowly, Striker peeled her lips away, the loss of connection almost painful, opening her eyes to the sight of Morien, heavy-lidded and blinking in the sunset. A lovely smile dawned on her face and her eyes sparkled like the waves behind them.

Striker moved to kiss her again, but Morien looked down and then glanced at Striker sideways. She looked shy. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why did you tell me you didn't want to... sleep with me?"

Striker looked puzzled for a moment. "When did I say that?"

"At the Boom Shack...."

Striker's forehead smoothed and she grinned - a sweet, shy, one-sided grin that made Morien's knees go weak. "Oh, then," she said. She ran her finger down Morien's peach-skin cheek, coming to rest on her chin. She looked into those ocean eyes, the eyes that had captured her from the start. "If I recall, my exact words were that I didn't want to fuck you," she said, with a smile. "I don't want to fuck you. I could never fuck you, of all people." She watched a tear follow the path her finger had just taken, then gently wiped it away with her thumb. "Morien, I want to make beautiful, sweet love with you... slow, sensual, beautiful love until… there's condensation dripping down the windows and... and the neighbours are calling the police."

"Striker West...," Morien breathed the name. Then: "You do have a way with words, don't you?"

Striker ran her hands down Morien's body, dallying as her palms brushed the sides of Morien's breasts, and then down, settling on a pert backside. She squeezed, gently, and whispered at a shell-like ear, "I gotta way with more than words, baby."

Morien threw her head back and laughed, only to stifle herself with a groan as a hot mouth found an earlobe and nipped. She curled her arms round Striker's neck, encouraging the contact as the American's tongue kissed then licked skin, a growl vibrating. Words rose like music. "Striker," she said, whispering into her hair. "Oh, Striker…."

Striker stopped, her eyes closed, her mouth still resting against Morien's neck. The sound of her name, spoken in rippling Welsh cadence, rushed through her body, feeling for one incredible moment, like the first swell of orgasm.

She lifted up, off Morien, her hands resting on the smaller woman's shoulders, needing the support as she felt her legs weaken. Morien's eyes were wide, a deep, dizzying moss that threatened to swallow her whole.

"God help me," she murmured, her heart pounding. And then she couldn't wait any more. She dived, claiming Morien's mouth with her own. Her tongue, still tingling with the taste of skin, ran against the curve of lips with pious desperation.

And Morien let her in.

The first, slick tangle of tongue against tongue caused both of them to moan. Morien felt herself sinking into the kiss. Sinking and floating at the same time. This was a sensuous heaven. She could taste smoke and the lingering tang of chicken pasta and something indefinably Striker that made her want to plunge deeper for more. And something else, as if… as if love had a taste. Slowly, she traced her tongue along Striker's, relishing it - hard and soft at the same time. A little hum of delight emanated from the taller woman pressed against her and translated itself into liquid below. So she snaked her tongue the other way, which elicited the same reaction.

A dialogue was emerging between them of little whimpers of arousal, narrated by the sleek caress of hands. Morien once again found her fingers in Striker's hair wanting to draw her in closer. Her other hand slipped downwards, feeling the strong muscles of Striker's shoulders and back shifting beneath the material of her t-shirt. She found herself involuntarily tracing patterns along the flow of muscle, little circles and waves, her fingers mimicking the movement of her tongue.

Striker was finding she couldn't get enough. She hugged Morien closer to her body, feeling the smaller woman's breasts pressing sweetly-hard against her abdomen. She moved a hand down to tease the side of the right mound, gently kneading it with a thumb. Her other hand ventured lower, sliding gently but firmly over Morien's bottom. Here it stayed, massaging a buttock which, in turn, pressed its enthusiasm into her palm.

She wanted to say something, but she couldn't tear her mouth away. So she poured everything into the kiss, telling Morien how amazing she tasted, how incredible she was, how aroused she was making her. Her centre was molten, yet she could feel her clitoris unbearably hard, a swollen island in the flood of heat.

Striker moved a leg, insinuating it between two smaller thighs. The motion caused her to rub against the hard seam of her jeans and she groaned again into Morien's mouth. Morien was hot. She could feel the heat through the denim. She shifted her leg again, barely a rub against Morien's inner thigh and then the small woman pushed forward, rubbing herself, her own dampening centre, against Striker's leg. The move was accompanied by a sweet, sighing groan that Striker breathed in like oxygen.

Some still-functioning part of Striker's brain wondered. Was she going to come just from a kiss?

Again a push, again that groan, a breathy gasp in her mouth….

And then Morien stopped.

Everything.

Morien felt "Wh...?" tickle against her lips.

She put her hands on Striker's shoulders and pushed her back. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to still her heart, trying to sound calm, controlled, trying to find the breath to say the words, "we can't do this." She started to move away although it felt as if she was tearing her skin apart.

Striker stared at her, her breath coming in short gasps. Every nerve ending was tingling in frustration. She couldn't speak, simply taking in the woman in front of her: those bruised, full lips, her flushed skin, the green eyes, now so dark with dilation they looked almost black. But there was fear there. Morien shut her eyes. Striker spun away, reeling, trying to get her bearings.

She stopped barely a safe distance from the cliff edge, taking great gulps of sea air. The sea gulls cried. The sound ripped her inside to shreds. She took another breath.

Of course they couldn't do this. What the hell had she been thinking?

She turned round.

Morien was standing a few steps away, looking away. One arm wrapped round her body, the other to her face.

"You're right," Striker said, but even to herself her voice sounded half-hearted.

Morien took her hand away from her face, looking round at Striker. She was crying. She needed an out, they both needed an out, and Striker loved Morien enough to give her one. But it was going to hurt like hell.

Striker smiled encouragingly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Morien, I'm a lot of things: a smoker, a drinker, I've taken a few illegal substances... I'm not exactly celibate... I'm a stalker...," a grim laugh reached Morien's ears, "I've fucked up a lot of things in my life, but I'm not about to let you fuck up your life. I've broken up people's relationships in the past, but I can't let you do the same. You're a good, beautiful person. You have a girlfriend, and you love her, and, you're right, we can't do this."

Sophie.

Yes, that was a good excuse.

And, suddenly, Morien closed her eyes again, her stomach lurching from the weight of guilt at what she'd been thinking. Sophie wasn't an excuse. She was her girlfriend.

But, the world she was now inhabiting had no place for Sophie. It was a world of fantasy and intrigue and danger that started and ended with Striker, and all others had become supporting players. But this was no fantasy world, and those bit-players were real people, living, breathing and feeling, and suddenly it was as if Sophie was there, her presence as tangible as if she had materialised in front of them.

"I'm sorry," Morien said, unsure of whether she was apologising to Sophie or Striker. She couldn't have met the eyes of either one.

"So am I," Striker said.

"You know, for a bad girl, you're doing a really bad job."

"I told you, I don't like being labelled." Striker's voice was heavy with melancholy. "Maybe we ought to go home, huh?"

Morien nodded.

Striker wanted to hold her hand out, but instead, shoved it into her pocket.

She took one look back at the sunset. The sun was almost touching the waves. Would it fizzle out and die in a cloud of smoke? She turned back and followed Morien down the hill in silence.


* * * * *


"Have you two had an argument?" Sullivan asked his daughter, discreetly, as she sat staring at the television. She had no idea what she was watching. The action was taking place in her head, on a cliff top, with the sea as background.

Morien looked up, barely aware that Sullivan had spoken. "Not exactly," she finally said, her voice dull.

Sullivan looked at her, concerned. "Are you all right, cariad?"

Morien shrugged. She could smell Striker's cigarette smoke entwined with night-scented stock, drifting in on the slight breeze through the open patio doors. It was as heady as her kisses and it made Morien feel giddy and frustrated. She had been sitting on her hands all evening. "I'm just tired," she said. "It's been a weird few days." Sullivan gave a hollow laugh. "I think I might go up to bed."

She stood to go, but hesitated, wondering whether she dared stick her head around the door to wish Striker a good night. But that would involve looking her in the eyes while trying to stop her knees from buckling. She started to move but was stopped by a noise behind her. Looking round she caught Striker's arctic sky gaze as the tall woman appeared at the door. She shivered imperceptibly, despite her body flushing with sudden heat. Both women looked away.

"Mr Llewelyn, would it be all right if I made a phone call?" Striker said, concentrating her attention on Sullivan.

"Of course you can," Sullivan replied. "And please call me…."

"…Sullivan," Striker finished and smiled at him.

Morien sighed deeply, and moved to the hallway, aware that Striker was following her. She started up the stairs.

"Morien…," the voice caught her. Morien turned, attempting to keep her expression calm. She could see Striker swallow, the muscles working in her throat. There was a pause. "Good night," Striker said, at last.

"Good night," Morien replied, managing a smile. She turned back up the stairs, resisting the urge to run, sensing Striker fall onto the chair by the telephone. She shut her bedroom door behind her.

Striker heard the door click shut, and put a hand to her face, massaging her forehead. This is a fucking mess.

She needed familiarity. She needed reassurance. She needed Danny.

She unfolded the piece of paper that Morien had pressed into her hand, with a grin and sparkling green, after her own call to Asha. Striker didn't take in the number immediately, merely running her gaze over the rich handwriting and Morien's doodling. She'd illuminated the D of Danny with carefully penned dreadlocks.

This is a fucking mess.

They'd been driven home, PC Smith apparently oblivious to the uncomfortable silence between them. Striker had headed straight for the shower. Standing in the lukewarm water until the need for release became to great. She'd come hard, leaning against the tiled wall, biting her bottom lip to mute her cry.

And it hadn't made the slightest bit of difference.

Striker sighed heavily, and picked up the phone, dialling the number. It rang for a while, and Striker was becoming painfully aware of just how late it was in the world of St Vincent's, when a sleepy voice answered.

She smiled the moment she heard it. "So, you busy chatting up the nurses, bro?"

"Nah, sis, Asha won't let me."

There was a pause. The sheer joy of hearing Danny's voice made Striker's throat burn with tears. He sounded slow and tired, but it was aural cinnamon. "Shit, bro I was so scared."

"I'm okay, sis. Had to shave me dreads off, though."

"Oh Dan…." Striker almost choked. "How're you doin'?"

"My head hurts like fuck sometimes. Other than that, the drugs are cool, the nurses are pretty, and me girl is sweet."

Striker laughed. Typical Danny: have his life threatened, undergo emergency surgery and still be so laid back he's almost upside down.

"Do you remember what happened?"

She could hear Danny sigh. "Nah. Just remember something big and white came through the door and had me down on my knees before I could see anything. They were asking me questions about you and your friend and some bag and I didn't understand a fucking thing they were saying."

Striker slumped. "I'm sorry this has happened to you, Danny."

"Not your fault, sis." There was a long pause, then: "Striker, have you heard about Paully?"

Not the time, or the phone bill. "Yeah, I heard about him. You seen Thomas?"

"Yeah. He came to see me."

"How is he?"

"Sad. Lotta bad things in the world, Strike."

"I know, bro, I know."

There was a long silence. Striker wrestled to keep her voice under control. To keep herself from sinking into slough of guilt. "Is Asha looking after you?"

She could sense Danny's smile - contagious, as always. "Yeah, she's great. Her parents don't like me."

"What the fuck do they know?"

Danny chuckled. "I miss having my big, bad sister around. Asha said you were in Wales." He said it as if it was down a byroad from nowhere.

"Yeah. I'm with… Morien." She was aware of the catch in her voice, but Danny didn't seem to notice.

"Hiding out?"

"That was the plan."

"How's it going?"

"Okay. It's quiet." Apart from the gangsters. "Beer's good. Cats everywhere. Her dad's cool."

"How's it going with Morien?"

Striker hesitated.

"Strike?"

Striker sighed.

"You're not a fuck-up, sis."

"No, but I'm going to be. One way or other."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"You got your own problems, bro. You don't need mine too."

"Yeah, but I'll feel better if you do."

Striker could almost feel the words crawling out of her mouth. "Danny… I want her so badly it hurts."

"You still haven't...?"

"The most we've done is kissed." A pause. Striker's voice became breathless and deep. "Fuck, can she kiss."

"Doesn't she want more than that?"

"I don't know. Dan, she's got a girlfriend already…."

"Well, that hasn't stopped you before." A pause. Danny obviously realised that wasn't what Striker needed to hear. This time it was different. He tried again. "She's made a commitment to this other woman?"

"I hope not."

"But that's what's holding her back?"

"Yes… No. No, it's not just Morien. It's me. I'm holding us back."

"Why, sis?"

"Cos I'm scared." She took a deep breath. "Dan... bro... if I love her… I'll lose her."



Chapter 22: O Taste And See⁶


It was a hot night.

Cool air flowed through the open window, but it did nothing to cool Striker's flushed skin. She kicked back the duvet again, and again felt a rush of heat as she remembered the feeling of Morien's lips on hers, Morien's tongue against hers, Morien's body thrusting….

If she removed anything else she would be naked, and her sanity couldn't afford her being naked right now.

Already she had tried to read, to allow her mind to be guided down paths that did not end in Morien. Except every path ended in Morien, and she would find herself imagining Galadriel and Olwen and (heaven help her) Hermione Granger with the open, child-like face of a pretty Welsh woman.

Already her fingers had wandered down between her legs, to explore the dripping core that seemed to be governing her every waking thought. She had brought herself to a panting climax, muffling the name of her would-be lover in her pillow. It had only made her feel more wet, more fuelled and more frustrated.

And she knew why. It wasn't her pleasure she wanted. For the first time in her sex life, she craved someone else's pleasure more than her own. She wanted to feel Morien writhing under her. She wanted to lick the sweat off her skin. She ached to hear her name on Morien's tongue, cried out in release. She longed to….

She wondered if she would wake the whole house if she had a cold shower. She wondered if she could stand lying in this bed any longer.

Fact is, if she stayed in this bedroom she would either start running up the walls or she would explode with lust. Either way, she was going to wake the whole house. She would risk a trip down the creaking stairs to the kitchen, a glass of cold water and a change of scenery.

In the dim light from the window, she pulled on some boxers and opened her bedroom door. The house was in darkness. Both bedroom doors were shut to the landing. She took a step out and thanked the god of floorboards for staying quiet. She felt her way down the soft carpet of the staircase, pausing at every muted, wooden squeak for signs of life. Nothing, not even the curious blink of feline eyes in the dark. She reached the hall and padded her way towards the half-open door of the kitchen.

And stood stock still on the threshold.

Morien was already there. She was silhouetted against the glass of the back door. The faintest glimmer of moonglow made her auburn hair gleam like a halo. Striker imagined she looked flushed. Her skin glistened. In her hand she held a glass of water. Ice cubes clinked faintly as she rolled the glass against her upper chest.

Striker felt frozen by the vision. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, and shades of Morien seemed to materialise within her silhouette. Striker felt as if she was spying on something as fragile as myth, as if it were a unicorn or a spirit that had just revealed itself in the moonlight. Morien was wearing those striped pink pyjamas but the buttons at the collar were undone, displaying a tantalising expanse of skin that began to swell as it disappeared under the material. The glass rolled again. A bead of liquid, maybe condensation, maybe perspiration, lingered on the revealed flesh, before trickling down to disappear beneath the shirt.

It was all Striker could do to stop herself from dashing forward and following the liquid with her tongue. She found herself clutching the doorframe for support, and the sudden movement caught Morien's attention. Her eyes were wide and dark. There was fear in them. And sadness. And deep, deep desire. For a long moment they simply stared at each other.

Striker started to move forward, but Morien turned, her words half whispered, further muffled by a hand. "I can't deal with this."

Striker stopped. This couldn't go on. She had to make a decision for both of them. Her voice was quiet and fast. "This is crazy…. Morien… I can't pretend that I'm not attracted to you. I can't do it. So… I think it's best that I leave, okay? First thing in the morning." Morien's eyes widened. "I'll go back to London, go stay with…." Except for the life of her she couldn't think of anyone who she could stay with whose position she wouldn't compromise, or whose life she wouldn't put at risk. She waved her hesitation away. "I'll find somewhere to stay…." She turned to go.

"No!" Morien moved forward now, abandoning the glass on the table. "No, Striker. Please, don't leave. Please." She reached out to catch Striker's arm, and with the touch, Striker's pulse quickened almost unbearably.

Striker wondered if she could control herself, but it was Morien who forced her backwards. It was Morien who slipped an arm round the tall woman's shoulders and pulled her face down. It was Morien who sighed a sweet, simple apology against Striker's mouth, and then claimed her lips with her own.

The kiss was hard, bruising and returned with fire. Tongues, hands, bodies melted together until they weren't sure where one finished and the other started. And didn't care. Morien found herself turned and pushed backwards against one of the kitchen surfaces, the edge hard against the small of her back. The sudden pain was glorious, making her gasp and cling to Striker's body still more tightly. She could feel Striker's big hands sliding down her sides, leaving a trail of tingling nerves, and arriving at her backside. They squeezed, slowly, causing a rush of flame to her groin.

The need for air forced them apart, but Striker took the opportunity to lift Morien up, so she was sitting on the kitchen surface. Taking advantage of the change in height, the taller woman started to explore the span of Morien's exposed flesh in front of her. She held Morien gently, her hands at the small waist, her mouth relishing its journey. She kissed the skin, moth-like touches which made Morien's blood flutter, then gently licked, relishing the slightest saltiness. A groan vibrated against her lips which encouraged her fingers to venture under the pyjama top, wandering up the smooth plain of the smaller woman's stomach. Striker's hands stopped just below Morien's breasts, lingering.

Morien felt words against her skin, drifting up in a kind of sensual haze. "I've wanted this for so long." Palms were warm against her abdomen, sending hot electricity through her body. "I've dreamed about this." Fingers touched the underside of her breasts. "Touching you. Kissing you…." A kiss in the shadowy valley that disappeared beneath the material. "Morien…." Her name branded on her skin with the heat from Striker's mouth. And then thumbs reached up and brushed against erect nipples, and Morien cried out.

Striker lifted her head and again their lips met, this time slower and infinitely more sensual, their tongues almost lazy in their venturing. She could feel Morien's fingers in her hair, as if the smaller woman was trying to merge with her. Striker went willingly, exulting in the softness of Morien's lips moving across her own, and the blissful, liquid heat between her legs. She reached up to fully cup a pert breast, testing the firm weight of it, enjoying its softness and size, dancing her thumb around the velvet aureole. The other hand roamed downwards, playing with the waistband of the pyjamas. Fingers slipped further and Morien gasped into her mouth...

...then broke away, her hands stopping Striker's in their tracks.

Striker swallowed her own frustrated cry. "Morien…?!" she said, half-question, half-exclamation. Her hands still clung to Morien's body, desperate for the connection.

"Striker, don't…." Morien's voice was so full of tension it was almost biting.

"Don't fuck around with this. Please." Morien could feel Striker trembling against her. "If it's something I've done… tell me. Please tell me. But I can't… deal with this… without knowing." Striker looked up at Morien, her eyes entreating.

Morien was as taught as a bowstring. One pluck and she'd be gone. Striker's shaking hands on her bare midriff was almost unbearable. She had to tell her.

"Striker, it's not you. It's me. I can't."

"Why?"

Morien could see Striker suck her bottom lip into her mouth, biting down. She wanted to be those teeth. And she was terrified.

"Please… is it... Sophie?"

Morien found herself brushing Striker's dark locks away from her face, despite herself. It was a gesture of comfort and reassurance for both of them.

"No, cariad, it's not Sophie. Although maybe it should be." That thought was for another time. "Striker… I'm scared."

"You're scared?" Striker's hands lost some of their tension. Thumbs stroked the skin. "Why?"

Morien looked shamefaced. "I'm sorry… I want this… I want you so badly… but…." She met Striker's concerned gaze and then it all came out in a rush. "I haven't had sex since this happened…" She brushed a hand over her head. "I haven't even touched myself that way. I can't. Ever since I was diagnosed…."

"The epilepsy?"

Morien nodded.

"But just because you have epilepsy, it doesn't mean you can't have sex."

"I know… but I'm so scared."

"Why are you scared?"

Morien looked miserable, her face downcast, her fingers now worrying a tangle into Striker's hair.

Striker's fingers made encouraging circles at Morien's waist. Her voice was as gentle as midsummer. "Please, Morien. Tell me. Why are you scared?"

"Because I don't know what effect it'll have on me. If I…."

"When you come."

"Yes."

The fingers stopped their movement, simply resting on skin. "You're scared that it might trigger a seizure?"

Morien nodded.

Striker let out the breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding. She moved her hands up to Morien's face, cupping her cheeks, lifting her eyes to hers, wanting to kiss her lips again, wanting to kiss away the tears that had appeared in Morien's green gaze. "Those bastards have a hell of a lot to answer for, don't they?"

Morien nodded again and rested her forehead against Striker's, her eyes closed.

"I'm sorry, Striker. I guess I'm the fuck-up."

Striker almost laughed. "No you're not, you're a princess. You're my princess. And I really want to make love with you."

"Striker…." Morien tensed under her hands.

Striker moved her hands down again, so they teased the pyjama waistband. "I want to touch you, and taste you. I want to make you come."

Morien shivered. She whispered against Striker's lips. "I don't want to live like this anymore. I don't want to be afraid of my body anymore. Help me."

"I want to help you." Her mouth brushed against Morien's with the words.

There was a pause as their breath mingled, heavy and slow with expectation.

"But if…."

Striker caressed a soft cheek. "If… if… you have a seizure, then I will be here. I will look after you, and hold you, and protect you, and I will be here when you open your eyes. Nothing will change that."

Blue met green in the dark.

"Striker, touch me," she whispered.

"Morien, are you sure?"

"Be my knight."

Striker's fingers restarted their journey downwards, moving under the waistband of the pyjamas, slowly, slowly touching the skin. Striker watched Morien's eyes flutter shut. Her breathing was coming quick and warm against Striker's face. She could feel Morien's skin trembling beneath her fingers.

So aroused. So scared.

Striker wanted to relax her, assure her that they would make this work, and this was not the place to do it. But first, she allowed herself just a little treat… just a little taste of what was to come. A wandering finger felt its way to the curls between Morien's thighs, and dipped... just dipped into the moisture there. Morien jumped at the contact, but that was all it was. Drawing the finger out Striker slipped it between her lips. And sucked.

Morien opened her eyes to see her own essence glinting in the half-light on those full lips and Striker's ice blue gaze quiver shut. When she opened them again, her eyes had turned, as if by magic, a deep violet. She leaned forward and kissed Morien gently, sliding her tongue into her mouth so Morien could taste herself.

Morien felt strong arms encircle her, felt Striker's murmur against her lips, "Put your legs round me." She did, pulling Striker towards her, wanting to rub her damp centre against Striker's torso, but simultaneously terrified of her body's responses to that action. Muscles suddenly flexed under her fingers and Morien felt herself lifting off the kitchen surface. Her eyes widened. Words were moist and breathy in her ear. "Hold on, baby. We're going to take you somewhere comfortable."

Morien nestled her cheek against Striker's neck, closing her eyes. This was the bolt-hole she'd found less than twenty four hours ago: the balmy scent of rose and sandalwood and smoke that lingered on Striker's skin. "You smell like heaven," she murmured, then brushed the flesh with her lips. Striker made a whimpering noise, so Morien did it again, this time following up with her teeth and tongue.

Striker's grip around the smaller woman tightened, and she paused in the hallway for a moment, letting out a breath. She could feel Morien's arousal against her, hot and wet, and beginning to seep through material. She could feel a maddening desperation to feel that trickle in her mouth. That brief taste had not been enough. It would never be enough. Her arms were shaking, not with Morien's slight weight, but with the strain of holding herself back. She briefly wondered what Sullivan's reaction would be if he discovered them rutting like teenagers on his hallway carpet. The thought was enough incentive to get her upstairs, where she pushed on Morien's bedroom door and brought them to a halt inside.

By the bed.

Morien slipped out of the circle of Striker's arms and loosened the grasp on her shoulders. She was suddenly a stranger in her own bedroom and she felt at a loss for what to do next. She looked up at Striker. The tall woman's face was hidden in the dark of the room, but her words guided her. "Make yourself comfortable," she said, quietly. She could hear a smile in the voice.

And the bedside lamp burst to life.

Striker's eyes were dark with want, but warmth and reassurance and something like concern danced in there as well. She lifted an eyebrow, and Morien found herself sitting on the bed, clutching the dishevelled duvet nervously. "This is stupid," she said, her quiet voice shaking. "I feel like this is my first time."

Striker sat down beside her, taking her hand in her own. "It is the first time… for both of us." Striker's hand was trembling. Morien was about to speak, but Striker stopped her words with a sweet, lingering kiss that did nothing more than promise. Her hands went to the hem of Morien's pyjama top, and her eyes asked a question.

Morien nodded - a quick, tense nod before she lost her nerve - and raised her arms. Striker slowly, carefully moved her hands up Morien's body, bringing the material with her, lifting the shirt off. She tossed it away, hands hardly losing contact with bare skin. Without stopping to concentrate on what was being revealed, her touch moved down, hooking her thumbs onto the waistband. Again, her eyes questioned.

Morien stood, allowing Striker to sweep the pyjamas downwards, then stepped aside from the pool of fabric. She stood naked in front of the American woman, feeling excited, vulnerable and terrified at the same time.

Striker, her eyes closed with blissful anticipation, inhaled the scent of Morien's arousal. Her mouth watered.

This was it. This was what she'd been dreaming about for months. This was what she'd been searching for... for years. Real, honest-to-goodness love. The kind that comes just before happily ever after. Had she come to Britain for this?

Maybe… just maybe….

She opened her eyes.

And let out a breath. Pale, ethereal, fragile... real. "You're so beautiful," she said.

Morien looked down.

"Hey." Striker stood up, catching Morien's face with a tender hand. "You are. Ever since I first saw you, Morien, you're like something…." For a moment she was lost for words. "You're like something from a story. You are my princess. My magical…," a kiss, "…beautiful…," another kiss, "…princess." And Morien caught the words and swallowed them, diving into Striker's mouth, pressing her naked body against the soft material of her t-shirt. Swollen nubs rasped against the fabric, feeling the answering peaked rigidity from beneath as she reached up. She started to pull the shirt up, suddenly desperate to feel the skin below, but Striker stopped her. Roaming hands persuaded her onto the bed, and she found herself staring up into a deep blue longing that made her breath catch.

"Lie down, baby." Striker's voice was low and deep and breathless at her ear.

She did, wondering how she could feel so apprehensive and aroused at the same time. Striker settled at her side, her clothed body pressed up against hers. For a moment, she did nothing, and Morien could feel her ardent, appreciative gaze melting her body. Then a hand landed, touching a breast, running a finger around the soft flesh. Morien could feel her body respond to just this gentle contact, flushing with heat.

Then the voice again, itself enough to make her blood quicken. "It's in your eyes, that beauty. When I first saw you, it didn't matter where we were, what had happened, there was that beauty. You glow with it."

Striker propped herself up on one arm, so she could look down at her lover. Lover. God, the mere word made her hot. The closest hand caressed the back of Morien's neck, simply teasing the longer strands of auburn. The other now cupped the breast, squeezing gently. A thumb drifted over the sensitive tip and Morien gave a soft cry.

Striker's voice caught in her throat, but she carried on talking, her own desire telling in the sound. "I've wondered what you sound like when you're aroused. I've wanted to hear you cry out at my touch. I've wanted to hear my name on your lips."

Suddenly, she bent and took the neglected nipple in her mouth, as her fingers continued to tease the first. Morien cried out again, louder this time: "Oh… Striker…." Her hands caught in Striker's hair to fix the dark head to her breast.

Dazed, Morien opened her eyes to look down at Striker. The full lips were apart enough to see her glistening tongue laving the pink bud. Each sweep of wet pleasure Morien felt radiating outwards, and downwards. Even her toes curled with the sensual joy of it. Striker paused for a moment, and Morien realised that she was looking at her; violet-blue eyes twinkling at her. Her tongue had frozen on her breast, the nipple suddenly an artistic relief against the moist, pink plain. She grinned, and Morien watched as the revealed teeth moved to graze the skin. Another cry, and her toes curled again.

Surprisingly, the fear was beginning to subside: she felt relaxed, and more excited than she had done in months… years… ever. All that was important now was feeling Striker's touch - her mouth, her fingers - and the almost overpowering need to touch her in return. She reached down, again trying to insinuate a hand into the enigmatic darkness beneath Striker's t-shirt. And again, her hand was stopped.

Striker smiled, despite her own nervousness. Her own body felt stretched between apprehension and almost painful arousal. But she couldn't show Morien, so she stayed hidden, instead losing herself in the familiar actions of sex.

Except this wasn't sex. This was almost impossibly different. Her actions, her reactions, seemed heightened. Every caress and every response sent a shiver of heat throughout her body, and through her mind. It was physical… and emotional… and blissfully spiritual…. All feelings concentrated into a burning haze. The boxers she'd so hastily pulled on were beginning to cling to her thighs with the stickiness. It was all she could do to stop herself from lowering herself onto the tempting thigh, just a hair's breadth away, and riding out her release. That would be the easy thing to do. And it would be one hell of a short ride. Striker knew if anything… anything… touched her right now she could not be held responsible for the reaction. The feel of tight fingers in her hair was almost too much.

So she concentrated on Morien. She concentrated on the smoothness of her heated skin, the sounds of desire that sighed into the air and tremored against her mouth, and the taste of soft perspiration and craving that shimmered gently over them both.

And then the voice again, moist against the skin, sentences punctuated by kisses. "You taste so good. All of you." Striker tasted the other breast, nibbling the skin, licking round the nipple before slowing sucking half the full breast into her mouth.

Her hands were journeying lower now, fingers exploring the landscape of her abdomen: tickling along the corrugation of her ribs, palms running across soft pathways. She left a trail of electricity and desire wherever skin touched skin, her progress marked by breathy murmurs, exhilarated hums and sudden, velvet cries. A finger tracked lower, tentatively brushing against a border of soft, auburn curls.

At times like this, Morien wished she could purr. Instead, she moaned in disappointment as the American's hot mouth deserted her breast, her fingers kneading the muscles beneath Striker's t-shirt. An arm came to cushion her neck and shoulders, and there was moist breath at her ear. But, tantalising, a hand still lingered below.

Striker nuzzled Morien's neck, her own nervousness carried away by the need of her actions. She kissed and gently nipped the skin there, burying her nose in the soft scent of flowers and sex. "Jesus, you smell so fucking good. Everything about you…." She opened her mouth over the pumping vein and slowly ran her tongue up it. "I want you so badly," she said, briefly coming up for air, her voice now desperate and panting. "I want you so badly…." And she tasted the life in Morien's neck, as fingers ventured into curls below.

Teasing.

Teasing….

Morien lifted her hips involuntarily, searching out the touch, and Striker let her find it. The hand slipped further. And Morien bucked.

Striker again ran a thumb over the little bundle of nerves she'd uncovered, this time allowing the tiniest drag of her thumbnail and was rewarded with a short cry. Morien again reached out, almost clawing at Striker's clothed body. "Please," she said, "please let me touch you, cariad."

Striker moved her hand away, so it hovered cruelly above Morien's centre - not touching, just hovering like a hawk ready to dive onto its cowering prey. Except this prey was aware and exposed and yearned to be taken.

"No," Striker said. This is about you, sweetie. This has to be about you. I can't come. Although her own words were threatening to betray her, the mere thought of this adding to the throbbing in her own groin. She suckled Morien's earlobe and whispered, "Fuck, Morien. I want to be inside you. I want to feel you round my fingers…." Her hand dipped again, this time meeting heated liquid and they both cried out.

Morien could feel her body buzzing, and now the fear was creeping back. What if this was a seizure? Her body bucked again as a finger flickered across her labia. She was losing control and she was scared.

Striker sensed the stiffening body beside her and stopped immediately. She raised her head, looking down at the small woman. The eyes below fluttered open and she looked down into a deep, forest green. "Do you want me to stop?" Her voice was small, but strong with concern.

Morien looked up into the blue gaze. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "I want this. I'm scared, Striker, but I want this more than anything. But I need you to hurry… please."

Striker gave a smile, and kissed the side of Morien's mouth. Her cheek. Her forehead. Her other cheek. Her nose. A tender shower of reassurance and devotion.

And then Morien felt fingers exploring her swollen folds. She looked into Striker's eyes and knew that, whatever happened, it was meant, and she would be safe. She gave a little nod and a finger slipped inside, and she let out a warm, sighing breath.

And it was Striker's turn to close her eyes. Morien's passage was tight round her finger. The heat and wetness she felt could have been her own. She felt for a moment as if it was Morien's finger so wonderfully filling inside her. She let out a humming sigh and murmured, "God, you feel so good."

She opened her eyes and found Morien gazing up at her, her breath coming in short, panting gasps. "Are you okay?" she asked.

Morien nodded, her hands straining against the duvet. "Fuck me, Striker."

And Striker did, starting slowly, gently withdrawing her finger from Morien and then sliding it back in through the slick lips. Her tongue tingled at the thought of putting her mouth to those folds, and drinking. But not yet. So, she withdrew again, and again pushed inside. A little harder this time. Out and in… and little by little Morien would meet each thrust with her own small push.

So she rewarded Morien with another finger, feeling warm walls clench around the two digits, adjusting to this precious invasion after so many months. And again Morien let out a gasping cry, "Yessssss."

The Welsh woman reached a hand up, clutching at her lover's own where it rested on her shoulder. Fingers entwined. She felt as if her body was burning, her blood foaming with the heat. She could feel herself losing control of her body. Her hips started to ram forwards of their own accord, allowing for deeper and deeper penetration. She tightened again around Striker's fingers, drawing the hard digits in. She wanted Striker all the way inside, until she was completely a part of her. Her body bucked again. She was losing control and part of her felt numb. Her brain was whirring. She couldn't tell anymore if Striker was speaking or not, but words - her own, Striker's, a million thoughts - sparkled through her nerves.

God help me, I'm going to come.

Striker looked down at Morien. Her eyes were closed. Her face tight with tension.

She was holding back. Striker lent down enough to kiss a flushed cheek, letting her lips wander down to an ear. She nipped the earlobe gently, whispering into the shell: "Let go, sweetheart. I'll catch you. I promise."

Morien opened her eyes - dazed, emerald orbs looking up at Striker - and Striker drove her fingers forwards once more, shimmering the digits in the tight space. And reached for the distended clit with her thumb.

A single touch was all it took.

"Striker… Duw… STRIKER…!" It was a shout that echoed round the room. Then Morien went completely still, her body rigid and arched off the bed. Striker could feel trembling beneath her hands, round her fingers, and for a moment she had an image of pouring rain, muted voices and fear. Her hand was wet, juices surging around her fingers and down her palm. She watched Morien's face; it was taut; her eyes shut; her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But there were words in the air, she could feel her own name exhaled into the night: "Striker, Striker, Striker…," and her own body flushed with reassurance.

So she massaged the throbbing sex with her thumb to prolong the quivering pleasure for both of them; but biting down on her own orgasm. Not yet. Not yet.... Her ears filled with another cry, like a soft carillon in the room. She revelled in the warmth and flood of desire that was bathing her hand. An answering flood was saturating her own centre. This was so beautiful, more beautiful than she had ever imagined: hearing her own name on Morien's lips as she came, watching her lover's lithe body react so passionately to her touch; feeling muscles contracting in a heavenly vice around her fingers. She wanted to scream herself.

At last, Morien seemed to float down and Striker slowed her own actions; at last stopping with a single finger, half-in half-out of the sweet warmth; unwilling to leave.

Morien's chest rose and fell; her skin was mottled with blushing rose. Striker couldn't help but stare at the sight, feeling ridiculously proud of herself. If they had Oscars for orgasms, she'd nailed Best Producer.

Morien opened her eyes to be confronted with the widest grin she'd ever seen. "Hi," the grin said.

"Striker…." Morien's voice was breathy and low. The grin stretched even more, and the night-sky eyes above it glowed. She brought her hand up and rested it on her lover's pink cheek. "I…." She swallowed, not sure what to say, trying to regain the power of speech. "We…."

"I'm not sure about the neighbours but we probably woke your dad."

Morien's eyes widened and then slammed shut. Her voice had suddenly taken on a slight squeak. "I wasn't that loud was I?"

"Yeah," Striker replied. A pause. "It was great."

Morien's eyes peeped open again. "Yes, it was. Thank you." She rested a hand over her eyes. "I feel stupid…."

"No…."

"I was stupid to have been so scared… I…."

"It was a natural reaction, sweetie, you didn't know…."

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"Well, yeah, you could."

A small smile appeared. "True, but it wouldn't have been nearly as…." Fun? Intense? Passionate? Loving? All of the above?

Instead, she moved her hand from her eyes, curving it behind Striker's head to bring her mouth down to her own. She greeted the lips with a sweet, chaste kiss, and then gave out a hissing giggle when Striker wiggled her finger, reminding her where it was. No point in being chaste any more. So she reached up and claimed the lips again, this time slipping her tongue between them.

She felt alive again. Her life made sense for the first time since… for the first time… since… (she wound her hand into Striker's hair and pulled her closer, allowing Striker's tongue back inside to tussle with her own. What had she been thinking of? Oh… yes…) …being alive. She hadn't felt this alive since… and an image of a gentle touch of mouths under the lilac in the Sayce's back garden swum into her mind; then swum away again as Striker pulled back, the next kiss hovering just beyond Morien's reach.

Her sex suddenly felt cold and empty as the finger was finally withdrawn and she watched as Striker brought the hand up between them. The palm was wet, the digits gleaming, and the scent of her own arousal was thick in the air.

Striker raised her hand to her mouth and licked, from the base of her palm to the tip of her middle finger. Then she sucked each digit into her mouth, swirling her tongue round each one, delighting in the taste. God, it was addictive. Morien was gazing at her, rapt, her eyes dissolve into dreamy moss. She wanted to share the flavour. She leant down, her glistening lips barely a millimetre from her quarry.

Morien opened her mouth, more than ready to accept….

And Striker smiled and pulled away.

"Wha…?" Morien reached out and pulled at Striker's t-shirt, but a hand stopped her intention. "Let me…."

"No." Striker pulled away.

"But, I want to…."

Striker grinned again. "There's something I want to do first." And much as she was still desperate for release herself, there was still one thing that was more important.

Morien could only watch as Striker moved her arm from under her shoulders and, cat-like, prowled down her body. All too briefly, she lingered at her breasts again, lapping, as if they were an oasis; then moved further, living a trail of butterfly kisses as she went, her loose hair tickling behind. Despite the t-shirt, despite Morien's position, she could see the muscles in Striker's back and arms moving. It was slow, sensual and predatory. In the dim light, Striker's eyes glowed. A new thrill of excitement tingled down Morien's body, as if following Striker's path; answering the need in the tall woman's burning-cold gaze.

Striker settled herself between Morien's legs; her long frame half-on, half-off the bed. She leant a cheek against a smooth thigh, breathing in deeply. She was seething with need. Two hits and she was a junkie.

That stuff they found in the chapel, anything pedalled by those power-hungry bastards, no drug in the world, past or future could ever be as addictive to her as the rush of Morien.

And here it was, the source, the font: beautiful, pink and winking with liquid. She felt, for a brief moment, like the knight keeping vigil at the Holy Grail, and….

What the hell was she waiting for? Shut the fuck up with the poetry and go for it, jerk….

Morien jumped as she felt the flat of a tongue slam up against her sex. And there it simply held: hot, hard, wet, and wonderfully invasive. Slowly, there was movement, a strong edge of muscle brushing up against an engorged fold, and Morien let out a breath. The tip of the tongue curled, tickling gently, but it seemed to flick a switch that radiated pleasure outwards and upwards. Morien could feel her body glowing, her core thrilling with a dripping delight. And this time there was no fear, no tension; she was simply enjoying it. She felt like laughing with joy. She moved her hands down, just touching Striker's silky head, and stroked encouragingly.

Striker smiled against wet flesh, welcoming the fingers that tangled in her hair, willingly pushing herself deeper, sucking on the folds, supping from them. She rolled her tongue and pushed it into Morien, and revelled in the groaned Strrrikerrr that ran through the body above her. R's rippling across her own skin. Her nose filled with Morien's scent. She was buried in here. She could drown in here, happily.

She breathed Morien in, then pulled her tongue out and plunged it back again, sucking as she went. Faintly, above the constant drone of her own arousal, and the tensed muffler of soft thighs, she could hear Morien moaning.

Slowly, Striker unfurled her tongue, dragging it back up the slick channel and out, replacing it quickly with a finger, relishing again the sink into Morien. She nuzzled the damp curls at her face, wanting to draw the sweet essence from each individual hair. Instead she recovered her breath: hot exhalations flowing over Morien's sensitive centre, causing a hiss above her. Tender fingertips were stroking her hair, not pushing or forcing her forward, just stroking. With a gentle awareness, Striker realised that it was a touch of gratitude.

She lifted her head, looking up the sumptuous landscape of the Welsh woman's body and found herself in Morien's gaze. A lazy smile played across her mouth, which formed words; words Striker couldn't hear, but which she understood nonetheless. "You're wonderful."

Striker flushed, suddenly shy - despite her position. She turned her head and laid her lips on Morien's thigh in a loving, thankful kiss. Then the location, the scent began to work its magic, and Striker couldn't help but kiss the skin again, this time licking the spot, tasting spirit.

Morien trembled at the simple, sensual touch. Her whole body felt on the edge of sweet shock, waiting in ecstatic frustration for the next telling tremor. She felt Striker's lips kissing again, licking - the hot moisture of the American's tongue turning her burning skin to a fervent ice in the night air.

Another kiss directly onto her sex, the probing tongue lapping again, hard fingers stroking inside, and she couldn't stifle the cry that burst from her throat. Her hold on Striker's hair couldn't help but grow stronger. She pushed her forward.

And Striker responded. Her mouth finally settling on the erect nub. She kissed it and Morien bucked up against her, causing her to take it further between her lips, laving it with her tongue, sucking it, gently grazing it with her teeth.

And Morien screamed: "Striker! Striker... Striker...." Striker... strikerstriker.... Until her lover's name became one with the waves of climax that surged through her body.

She came down slowly, the last delicious quivers disguising the fact that Striker was no longer touching her. Dazed, she opened her eyes, to find her lover above her. In almost a single move she had stripped off her t-shirt and boxers, and now naked, hovered above her.

"Striker…," Morien breathed, and Striker descended, her mouth hard, her tongue desperate for entrance, and Morien welcomed the sweetest invasion of her own taste tingling, almost overwhelmed at the feeling… at last… of flesh pressed against flesh. She wrapped her arms around Striker, groaning as the American's pebble-hard nipples crushed into her breasts, and then again as Striker broke the kiss. Her smile was wide.

Suddenly, Striker dived and with juices still coating her skin, wiped her damp cheeks against Morien's face. Morien burst out laughing, a dulcet, lyrical sound that resembled her accent.

"You're fun," she giggled.

Striker grinned. "You're hot."

Morien sparkled. "And you're finally naked."

"Well, thank you for notic…." Morien clutched Striker and rolled, and Striker voluntarily found herself on her back, with Morien above her.

"You're mine now," Morien smiled, a glint in her eyes that only heightened Striker's ardour. She sat up, straddling Striker's stomach, allowing her hands to wander across velvet contours: shoulders, arms, breasts in a slow, sensual massage - writing sonnets with her touch. She could feel Striker shudder under her touch, and she revelled in the sensation. How long had she been wanting this and stopped herself?

She slipped down a little, her hands dragging over Striker's breasts, intent on bending and exploring with her mouth, to suck, lick, worship….

Striker slowly became focused enough to realise that the beautiful, agonising attentions had stopped. She looked up and realised Morien was looking at her open mouthed. And not good open mouthed. And not at her specifically, but at a point somewhere mid-abdomen. "Striker," she said, "where on earth did you get that bruise?"

"Huh?" Striker looked down to where her skin blossomed in purples and yellows. It had been worse a couple of days ago, but she had simply covered it, lived with it, forgotten about it, apart from the occasional annoying stiffness. "Oh… that. Bruce punched me at The Boom."

"Striker!" Morien's eyes were wide with concern. "Shouldn't you have had that checked by a doctor?"

"Nah, it looks a hell of a lot worse than it is."

Morien flashed anger. "And you lecture me about looking after myself."

"You're comparing an epileptic seizure to a bruise?"

"It's a big bruise."

"Oh, fuck the bruise."

The annoyance in Striker's voice was tangible and shivered with tension. Morien realised how much the American had been holding back as she had pleasured her, and how desperately she needed some kind of release. Morien looked at her - apology and defiance warring within her - then suddenly, she smiled. A smile that turned Striker hot and cold at the same time. She moved a little so her centre hovered just inches from the American's colourful skin. "I will if you want me to," she said, teasing.

Striker's only response was a frustrated, "Morien…." But Morien knew exactly what that single utterance meant. It meant: "Fucking get on with this or I'm fucking doing it my-fucking-self."

Morien smiled, stretched up and kissed the soft, full lips. "Poor baby," she whispered, only half-joking.

They both groaned at the thrill of Morien's nipples scraping against Striker's as she bent to nibble the taller woman's skin. She placed a path of nips and kisses along Striker's shoulder.

Striker sighed contentedly and let her hands ramble over Morien's naked back. Her skin felt electric; her centre was beginning to pound with need. Then she wiggled. "If you don't hurry this will be the first time in history that anyone has come from having their shoulder kissed."

Morien's lips skimmed against flesh: "Shut up and keep your legs crossed."

Lips touched her neck. Striker whimpered. Then, "Are you doing what I think you're doing?" Morien hummed against her neck. Striker ran a shaky hand through short, red hair. "I thought you were against bodily blemishes," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Only when I don't make them," Morien murmured against her skin, and she felt Striker's cry against her teeth as she sucked and bit the skin.

She was Morien's now. She was marked. The lovebite tingled. As if she hadn't been Morien's from the beginning. "Jeeesus," Striker hissed.

"You like that?" A moist whisper in her ear.

"Shit, yeah."

"Would you like to see what I else I can do with my mouth, cariad?"

Striker wanted to say something cool and witty.

I thought you'd never ask.

You mean you can do something other than talking?

But with the thought of Morien's mouth hot against her sex, all she could manage was a squeaky and frantic, "Yes!"

Morien shimmied down Striker's body - momentarily lingering at the full breasts, her hands tracing lush curves - making promises to herself to explore the expanse more thoroughly later. Briefly, she detoured to the bruise, laying her lips on it, kissing it better, and Striker caressed her hair with devout thanks. The Welsh woman's sex left a path of scent and essence as she moved downwards, and Striker followed with her hands, rubbing Morien into her skin.

Morien felt Striker's wiry-soft curls tickle her backside, and moving further, she rubbed against them, causing both of them to cry out. She could feel the American's hot, wet desire greeting, combining with her own. Slowly, sex slid against sex. Morien could feel Striker's clit pulsing like a heartbeat beneath her and the feeling made her groan. Through a daze of heat she could see Striker's throat working, fingers clutching at the duvet, clutching at her own body, reaching for Morien, beseeching….

Morien's feet hit the floor.

She settled herself between thighs drenched with desire, lifting Striker's legs, settling them on her shoulders. Then she put a finger to dripping lips. Striker jumped at the touch. Morien smiled to herself.

She knew Striker was already on the edge - was about ready to shatter - but she wanted this to last as long as possible. She parted the lips and ran her tongue from bottom to top, slowly, lingering in places when Striker's little cries of pleasure seemed louder, feeling her trembling arousal, delighting in textures and tastes. Her mouth was full of her lover's rich essence and she drank it in, catching a hint of herself as she savoured. Even here Striker was smoky and Morien wondered if she'd ever get enough of it. "You're so wet," she murmured against the folds, more to herself than the woman above her.

"For you, sweetheart," she heard in reply. "For you…. Morien… please…."

Striker was on the edge of oblivion. She felt taut and desperate. Her hands gripped the duvet. She was too scared to touch Morien. She was afraid she would hurt her. "Please," rang in her head. Please please please….

And in the midst of her storm of sensation she felt a still, small touch. A single kiss at the centre of the vortex, directly onto her clitoris and it was as if she had been set free. She cried out - her voice needing escape in noise, but it was a soft, breathy sound. A gasp: her lover's name on air.

Morien watched in awe as Striker's whole body lifted with orgasm. She arched off the bed, almost sitting up, as her very being thrust forward with the force. Her face was tense, but it was beautiful in tension: glowing and pure, as if Morien was truly seeing the woman beneath.

For Striker, orgasm had always been solitude - the time when she was ripped apart from her bedmate, to travel a journey alone. But now she felt Morien with her: the touch of her, the taste of her, the sound of her name billowing through her as if the word had replaced the blood in her veins. She was flying, and Morien was flying with her, all around her, until….

Striker crashed back onto the bed, pillows cushioning her fall. Her chest heaved. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. Gently, she became aware of a warmth by her side. She smiled. Gradually, she opened her eyes, and with her muscles still tingling and jumping in the aftermath, she slowly rolled onto her side so she was facing her lover.

Morien's face was still glistening with desire. Striker reached up a trembling hand, and caressed a damp cheek.

"Cariad," Morien murmured, playing with a lock of long, dark hair.

"Morien," Striker whispered, her voice breathy and shaking. "Cariad. What does that mean?"

Morien smiled to hear the word from Striker. She meandered a finger across silky, swollen lips. "Cariad...." she murmured, and followed her finger with a kiss. "Sweetheart...," just a touch of lips, "..darling...," she dragged her own bruised mouth across Striker's, "...love." She was about to kiss her again but was caught by Striker's gaze, as potent and personal as any kiss, and showing every possible emotion. She was held in a breathless blue space, where time and air no longer mattered. Only the two of them.

Hearts merged until there was only a single beat.

Cariad....

And the moment was over as Striker closed her eyes, crushing Morien to her, and they lost themselves in each other.


Continued in Chapter 23….